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&c. &c. 

" little did my mither ken, 
The day she cradled me, 
The lands I was to travel in — 
Or the death I was to dee! " 

Old Ballad. 

VOL. m. 


All rights reserved. 








VOL. III. g 



" He, the more fortunate — ^yea ! he hath finished ! 

For him there is no longer any future ; 

Far off is he, beyond desire and fear ; 

No more submitted to the chance and change 

Of the unsteady planets ! O 'tis well 

With him ! — ^but who knows what the coming hour 

Veiled in thick darkness, brings for us f 


fT^HE morning sun was streaming on the 
Villa Serboni, its golden rays striking 
in discordant brilliance between the closely 
drawn curtains, and dancing in dazzling 
motes on the floor as gaily as though no 
tragedy had been enacted between its 
setting and its rising. 

B 2 


All the houseliold was in a state of sup- 
pressed and awe-stricken excitement; every- 
where the house was pervaded by hushed 
voices, agitated whispers, hurried foot- 
steps. In one room only there was silence 
now; and those who passed its door trod 
softly, and spoke with lowered murmurs, 
as if they feared to disturb the dead. 

They had laid him there, in the room 
opening off the hall where he had awoke 
on so many mornings to see the sun pour 
in, rousing him from sleep with its flood of 
light — the same sunlight that stole its way 
in through the closed blinds now, and 
touched, as if in a cruel mockery, with one 
bright ray the stained and matted locks of 
hair it used to gild so gaily. 

Around him as he lay, there had been 
weeping and wailing, outcries of horror and 


sobs of despair. But " nothing can touch 
him further." He is safe behind the 
eternal barrier now, the barrier against 
which mortal yearnings, prayers, and long- 
ings dash themselves in vain. There is no 
more of temptation and resistance for him, 
no more perplexity, no more conflict be- 
tween the opposing forces of passion and 
faith. The tangled knot in which he had 
become involved, and which had seemed so 
hard to unravel, which passing days had only 
seemed to twist the tighter, was cut through 
at a blow. Down upon the passionate heart, 
down upon the disturbed spirit, the peace 
of Death had fallen, and they were stilled 
for evermore. One day before a woman's 
tear, a woman's smile, would have been as 

" The powerful moon to his blood's sea, 
To make it ebb and flow." 


No human voice, no mortal tears or cries, 
would stir the frozen silence now. 

His body had been found that morning 
by strangers, lying in an unfrequented 
path that his friends remembered to be 
one of his favourite walks. He had been 
shot twice, in the side and in the breast, and 
had been dead some hours when the first 
passers-by along that solitary path discov- 
ered him. At a few paces from him lay a 
revolver of which both barrels were dis- 
charged ; but whether it was a case of 
suicide or murder there was nothing as yet 
to prove. 

In Luli's room,'her father and friends 
were anxiously watching her. They had 
had cause to fear for her life or her reason 
since they had dragged her by main force 
from her lover's side, and carried her in- 


sensible upstairs. Now however slie ap- 
peared to be recovering herself a little ; 
and the doctor, who had speedily arrived, 
and who, unable to do anything for the 
dead, had turned to the assistance of the 
living, said that with care she might do 
very well. Glencairn, who had been bend- 
ing over her in stern and silent agony that 
none dared intrude upon by idle words of 
comfort, now seeing her somewhat restor- 
ed, rose up in his usual calm and practical 
composure. He looked round the room 
steadily, as if taking note of its inmates ; 
Kate and Mrs. Craven attendant at the 
bedside; Mr. Craven peeping in at the 
open door to inquire, ^' How is she now ?" 

'^ Where is your friend Zora ?" Glencairn 
said suddenly to Kate. 

" I don't know. She is dreadfully upset. 


I went to her room just now, and slie isn't 

"Tm going downstairs," said Glencairn. 
" 111 send her up to you. She seems an 
hysterical, excitable sort of girl ; I want to 
tell her to be careful — and if she is going 
to break down, not to break downA^r^," he 
added, glancing towards Luli as he spoke 
aside to Kate. 

Kate quite understood Glencairn's natu- 
ral anxiety, and said she was certain Zora 
would carefully obey any hint that he 
might give her. 

Zora was down at the bottom of the 
garden, cowering, trembling, hidden in the 
most secluded corner she could find. She 
felt an overpowering longing to fly and 
hide herself — anywhere, anywhere, even in 
the grave. In her despair she wished that 


she were dead with the lover she had doubly 
lost — dead and safe, away from Glencairn, 
as far away as death from life. She recol- 
lected but little of those dreadful moments 
when the men had borne their silent, heavy 
burden through the hall ; but she knew it 
was Glencairn's voice that had hissed a 
whisper, cold and deadly as poison, into 
her ear, " I advise you not to betray your- 
self." Then she thought she must have 
fainted, for everything had whirled and 
danced around her, and for many following 
moments all the world was a blank to her. 
In such a despair as Zora's, there is no 
clear consciousness. It is all a chaos of 
black and fearful shapeless shadows. When 
we begin to see clearly, when things take 
shape, and we can distinguish and define 
the various complications of our suffering,. 


clearly coloured and outlined, the day of 
•comfort lias dawned. 

Zora was lost in the first darkness of a 
great despair, made blacker by self-reproach. 
She could not think ; she could not reason ; 
she only felt as if she had fallen into a 
great black pit full of horrors, where no 
ray of light could ever penetrate, no hand 
could be reached to help her, evermore. 
She felt as if she must be going mad ; the 
only anchor that seemed to hold her to 
sanity was a vague doubt as to the reality 
of this horror — a wonder whether she 
would not wake as from some frightful 
nightmare ? 

She crouched there helpless, hopeless, 
till, looking up at the sound of footsteps, 
she saw Glencairn turning the corner of 
the path. 


The sight of the fiend incarnate would 
probably scarcely have startled and terri- 
fied her more. At once at sight of him • 
the shock of reality stabbed her home. 
Alone, she might wonder if it were all a 
nightmare. His presence forced the pang 
of the truth to thrill through her every 
nerve. She first sprang up to her feet 
wildly, as if to fly, and then stood trem- 
bling, gazing at him with a hatred and 
horror that struggled with, but were still 
subordinate to, her fear of him. 

He looked on the fragile, quivering 
figure, the white, terror-struck face, stead- 
fastly, without pity. 

'* Do you feel calmer now?" he asked. 

The words were not unkind ; but his 
voice to her shrinking ears seemed like the 
mocking hiss of a serpent ; and as she met 


his piercing gaze bent on her, she felt as if 
it were the " evil eye " that blighted where 
it fell. 

"What have you come for — why?" she 
gasped, almost too agitated to be conscious 
what she said. 

" I should not have come to you without 
a reason." 

"Do you want to kill me too ?" she 
said, with partly terror and partly the de- 
fiance of desperation. 

" Far from it. I have merely come to 
advise you to forget one conversation that 
you and I once had." 

" Forget it ? I cannot ! How could I 
ever forget it ?" she exclaimed, struggling 
to be brave and despising herself for her 
conscious failure. "And — and — others — 
shall know it too," she gasped with an 


effort. '^They shall all know—" She 
could say no more. 

*' Shall all know — what ?" he asked, and 
the dark dangerous fire of his eyes para- 
lysed her. She stood fascinated — helpless. 
In all the tumult of his mind he felt some 
curiosity to see how far the feeble courage 
of this timid creature would go. "Would 
she dare to accuse him of murder to his 

" Shall all know — wUatT^ he repeated. 

Zora lost what little presence of mind 
and courage she had retained. She shrank 
away from him, and with a sudden access 
of terror, like a wild creature struggling 
from the hunter's hands, she sprang past 
him and tried to fly from him. He caught 
her by the wrist. She did not scream, for 
her voice failed her, and the cry of terror 


died in her throat; but her whole frame 
drooped and quivered, her limbs seemed to 
turn powerless and give way beneath her, 
and she looked up at him with eyes like 
those of a hunted deer as it falls prostrate 
in the power of the yelling pack. 

"What does this folly mean?" he said. 
" You have no need to fear. I'll not hurt 
you. But I will not be trifled with. You 
shall speak plain instead of evading me. 
What shall they all know ?" 

She feared him, but instinctively she put 
some faith in his word that she was safe, 
and she was compelled by his stronger will 
to speak. 

" It — it was you — who killed him !" she 
gasped, half in grief and reproach, half in 
hatred and horror. The words once utter- 
ed, a thrill of the anguish of love stabbed 


her heart deeper than her selfish fear. 
" Oh ! you have killed him !" she cried, 
despairingly, reckless for the moment of 
his influence. 

" Stop !" he said, and a sort of repressed 
shudder ran through his frame, and his 
breath for one moment failed him. But 
in a second's struggle he seemed to seize- 
again upon his power of self-control, and 
grasp it as a man, round whom tumultuous- 
waters surge, clutches the rock that rears 
itself above the assailing waves. So Glen- 
cairn, in the tempest of his spirit, held 
fast to his only safety, firm even now 
in his stormed but unshaken strength. 

*'Donot speak those words again," he 
said. " Once is enough. What cause 
have you to dare to couple my name with 
this deed ? AYhy do you tremble so ?"" 


(For ter brief impulse of courage was past.) 
*^ I liave told you tliat you are safe from 
me. Sit down — listen. You think that he 
has not died by his own hand ? You think 
that it was T who did it ? What evidence 
have you in favour of your fancy ? Reflect 
well. What possible proof have you to 
back up your own baseless suspicions ?" 

He spoke quite calmly now ; but even his 
wonderful self-possession was not proof 
-against some slight betrayal of anxiety; 
and in his deep deliberate tones there was 
a forced quality that bore witness how rigid 
was the constraint his iron will held over 
the heart and nerves, that under a less 
stern power must have given way. 

"Proof? evidence?" repeated Zora, 
startled by this new idea, and growing 
•calmer as the tremor of her purely nervous 


personal fear abated. " Your own words 
— ^your own threats — my knowledge." 

" Knowledge you have none; and neither 
your assertion of your own belief, nor your 
unsupported and highly improbable state- 
ment that I uttered a certain threat to you, 
will be of any value as evidence. How 
could you prove, even if you could persuade 
them that I, in a moment of irritation, did 
utter some imprudent words, anything else 
against me ? Furthermore, your repetition 
of our conversation will ruin you. How 
do you think the world will judge of your 
stolen meetings at midnight ?" he said, 

Zora shrank away with a piteous, sob- 
bing cry, and buried her face in her hands. 

"Consider well," Glencairn continued, 
"what your position as sole and unsup- 



ported witness against me will be. Consider 
the effect of the exposure upon your life and 
prospects ; and the fact that your evidence 
alone is so weak as to be all but worthless." 

" When I — have told my story — it would 
be for them to seek and find further evi- 
dence," she said, with her face still hidden 
in her hands ; but her voice betrayed her 
irresolution and her wavering ; and Glen- 
cairn knew that he had not much to fear 
from her courage or her determination, 
whatever he might have to fear from her 
weakness or her impulse. 

*' You will not tell your story," he said. 
** I have not much reason to trust your 
promises ; but you shall take an oath, more 
solemn than any you have taken yet in 
your life, to obey me in this matter. And 
this oath you shall keep. You would be 


mad to assert your belief and tell your 
story. It would be ruin to you, and pro- 
bably no harm to me. You have no proof 
against me. I have no cause to fear. 
Why, then — ^you want to know — whi/ do I 
exact this silence from you ? For this 
reason — " He paused, and Zora looked 
up. Had she been strong, she might have 
seen her advantage here ; for, steadily as 
he spoke, it was the one vulnerable point 
in his armour of proof from before which 
he now lowered the shield ; and it was not 
the safest and easiest, but the most daring 
and desperate game that he was playing. 
" If you should say — what you can say — 
you will as surely commit a murder as 
whoever killed him — if slain by other hands 
than his own he is," he added, cautiously. 
" The coupling of my name — with this 

c 2 


deed," he continued, in deeper tones, and 
his breath coming with hoarser effort — 
" will be Luli's death. It will kill her, or 
drive her mad ! Dare you take this respon- 
sibility on your soul ? If you dare, and if 
harm comes to her — on your head be it ! 
You will be her murderess if you speak. I 
warn you — take her death upon your soul, 
if you dare do it ! " 

Zora knew that she was dealing with a 
desperate man ; she saw it in his eyes and 
in the tremor of his hands. She dared not 
defy him ; and even had she collected the 
courage to denounce him^ she dared not 
face the thought his last words had brought 
before her. She dared not deal what 
would probably be a death-blow to the girl 
she had already wronged. 
• The conflict ended — if conflict it could 


be called, where one was so strong and the 
other so weak — where one was desperate, 
and the other cowardly — in Zora's taking 
the solemn oath of silence Glencairn exacted 
from her, in terms too earnest and terrible 
to be lightly broken by one who was only 
too timid to be true. 

^' One parting word," said Glencairn, as 
he turned to leave her. He laid his hand 
on her shoulder, lightly, as if merely to 
compel her attention, and spoke, not 
threateningly, nor passionately, but with 
an enforced and deliberate calm that was 
more terrible than any vehemence. "If 
you should break this oath, there is no 
power that shall shield you from me. No 
bolts nor bars, no distance of land and sea, 
shall keep you safe from me. Not even 
my death shall save you. From the hottest 


depths of hell I'll rise to drag you down." 
He was as pale as slie; the hand he 
rested upon her shoulder shook ; and it 
seemed to her that, in the baleful glow of 
his dark, deep-set eyes the fires of hell 
were already reflected. She shrank, but 
could not speak. She gazed at him mutely^ 
with the fascination of fear ; her lips re- 
fused to utter any further promises or 
reiterate her oath ; but her terrified, dilated 
eyes seemed a stronger assurance of her 
obedience than any words. He seemed 
satisfied, for he turned away from her with- 
out another syllable, and was soon lost to 
her sight amongst the garden trees. 

Zora trembled so that she could scarcely 
stand. She sank back into her seat, and 
for some minutes remained passive and 
almost unconscious, faint with the exhaus- 


tion of excessive agitation. Then slie 
rose, and dragged herself slowly round the 
garden towards the house. She could 
scarcely realise clearly all that had passed. 
She felt like one in a horrible dream who 
clings to the hope that it is but a dream. 

What had she done ? She had sworn to 
become, by mutual knowledge and mutual 
secrecy, a murderer's accomplice — the ac- 
complice of the midnight murderer who 
had killed the man she loved. For although 
he had not pleaded guilty, he had not in 
plain words denied guilt ; and of that guilt 
Zora in the depths of her soul felt no 
doubt. Yet she had sworn to keep silence. 
She had bound this fearful secret upon her 
life. She must walk through the world 
like a convict she had read of with the 
corpse of his comrade fettered to him — a 


secret of death and murder for ever on lier 
heart. She must live crushed beneath it 
all the days of her life. Could she bear 
it ? Coward as she was, in body and in 
soul, was not this to which she had vowed 
herself a worse torture than any open 
scandal, any shame, ay, any death ? For at 
the worst he could but kill her. But then she 
trembled with superstitious terror at the 
thought of breaking such an oath as he had 
forced her to take. She dared not do it ! 
She drew near the house and looked on 
the curtained windows, and stopped, and 
her limbs shook beneath her as she gazed 
towards one room. She knew that there 
lay the body of her murdered lover. With 
a shuddering sob she fell on her knees, 
and hid her face and moaned his name to 
herself, and murmured broken sighs of 
love and agony. 


She had thought of herself and her own 
suffering. She had thought of him who 
lay there dead, cut off by violence in the 
prime of his young, strong life, through 
her; not by her will, but through her 
weakness. Hitherto she had not thought 
of Luli, and even when Glencairn spoke of 
his daughter, the thought had only touched 
her for the moment, and touched her re- 
flectively through her thoughts and fears 
for herself. 

But now she went timidly into Lull's 
room, where she found Kate and Mrs. 
Craven. Glencairn was there too. Zora 
looked on the deathly pale and altered 
beauty of the gentle rival she had envied, 
on the wide open eyes that looked around 
from face to face, as if half wondering what 
they were pitying her for. Luli scarcely 


seemed to hear wliat they were saying to 
her, or to be able to realise the truth of the 
calamity. She had risen up and stood in 
the midst of them, and put her hand to her 
head as if to clear the wandering confusion 
of her mind. 

" I want to see him," she said, faintly 
and half vacantly, for she was exhausted 
with the mental anguish that saps the 
strength as surely as physical pain. 
*' Where is he ? Take me to him." 

Zora's soft heart melted with a great 
gush of honest womanly sympathy, and 
tears brimmed over her eyes. 

" My poor dear child," said Mrs. Craven 
soothingly to Luli, " stay here ; lie down. 
You are not strong enough to bear any 
more agitation." 

Luli did not answer, but looked at her 


father pleadingly, and stretclied out her 
hand to him. 

" Papa?" the faint piteous voice entreat- 
ed. " Papa, you never were unkind to 
me yet ! You will let me go to him ? I 
want to see him." 

She clung to him trustfully, beseeching- 
ly ; and he, his face as white as death, cast 
one look at Zora, one stern look that rather 
compelled than warned. 

He had seen Zora look terrified, agitated, 
passionate, reproachful, tearful — but never 
till now had he seen an expression of stead- 
fastness on her face. Now that fair face- 
wore a look of steadfast sudden resignation 
and resolve, that had something almost 
heroicin it, because of herself at thatmoment 
she had no thought. Only as she saw Lull 
turn and cling to her father in her sorrow,. 


she felt that in this case — even if she had 
xiared to break her oath — the truth would 
Tbe no less than murder, and that in 
mercy she who knew all must bear her 
knowledge bravely, and must keep her 
fearful secret and her extorted vow faith- 
fully to the end. Unselfish pity melted, 
and. unselfish resolution, right or wrong, 
elevated her for once ; and her eyes flashed 
to Glencairn with the first light of courage 
lie had ever seen in them, " You are safe !" 

" Let me go," murmured Luli. 

*' Yes, darling. You shall," he answered 
resolutely ; enduring the gaze of her wild, 
wistful, pleading eyes, the trustful clinging 
of her arms, with the endurance of a sav- 
age, firmly as the stoical Eed Indian bears 
the fire and knives of his torturers. As 
martyrs have looked down from the stake 


at the kindling fagots at their feet, un- 
shrinkingly, Glencairn looked upon Lull 
with eyes that never blenched. 

*'I go first," he said. "Luli, you may 

come; but not until I have seen him 


He went downstairs alone. 

" Are the police come yet ?" he inquired 
as he met As sunt a in the hall. 

*'No, signor, not yet." 

He turned from her, and entered the 
silent room, and stood alone in the pre- 
sence of the dead. 

The face of the dead was composed now ; 
the eyes were closed ; and the silken-soft 
waves of hair — the bright hair " undimmed 
in death" — were brushed back from the 
cold marble brow. Beautiful in life, the 
face was beautiful still, in the stern repose 


of death. Nay, it was nobler, grander now, 
that the great calm and the supreme know- 
ledge had set their seal upon its stony 

Glencairn gazed upon him with no mist 
blinding his eyes, no tremor quivering his 
firm-set lips. The calm of the dead seem- 
ed to move him less than the agony of the 
living. Yet he looked down on the dead 
with a strange questioning, a breathless, 
desperate, but unflinching suspense, as 
though he half expected the marble lips to 
move and to bear witness. 

Then a sense of unreality stole over him. 
IVas it all a dream? a ghastly and too 
realistic nightmare? Was it Duke May- 
burne indeed who lay in that impenetrable 
calm? Were those sealed eyes the eyes 
that had laughed and clouded and lightened 


but yesterday? Was all that he had sworn 
to end so surely and so effectually ended ? 
or was it all a dream, and would he wake 
to find the deed undone ? No, it was real ; 
too real. All that was left to do was to 
look to the future now. This past was 
beyond recall, irrevocably. And even as 
he gazed on the deed that had been done, 
the distant dreamy look so native to them 
softened and calmed his eyes, though the 
rigid restraint of his features did not relax. 
" Poor boy," he murmured absently, 
brokenly, as one far off from the actual 
scene. " You were young. It was not you 
— nor I. It was Fate. — And there is no 
reproach in your look now. And the 
wounds did not gush blood at my ap- 
proach. Are you loyal in death, I won- 
der ?" 



For a while there was silence in the 
room, deep as though Death reigned there 

Then Mrs. Craven softly pushed the 
door open, and stood on the threshold. 

Glencairn turned to her with a face im- 
penetrable as the dead face from which he 
turned, and said, 

" Let Luli come !" 



*' Yes, night is about me, a night without star ; 

Blackest night with no moonlight to lighten its gloom ; 
But here at Love's shrine, where Love's memories are, 

My heart makes its tomb ! 
And is this then the end of our beautiful dream ? 

Oh ! our dream that was song and our dream that was 
Peace lives not for me, and time cannot redeem 

My soul from desire." 


/^N the subject of tlie young English 
^■^^ artist's mysterious death, due in- 
quiries were held ; and the Italian police- 
force were busily occupied in making 
investigations. All the evidence that could 
be elicited, however, did not warrant any. 
one's arrest on the charge of murder. 



It was not even proven whether the case 
was one of murder or of suicide. Doc- 
tors discussed the point, and differed as to 
possibilities and probabilities, but all agreed 
that the wounds of which he had died were 
such as might have been self-inflicted. 
The first would not have been immedi- 
ately mortal, but the second must have 
caused death almost instantly. The sup- 
position that the two had followed in rapid 
succession was corroborated by the state- 
ment of several persons who had heard two 
shots fired close together in the middle of 
the night, but who, not hearing any alarm 
or having any reason to suppose that crime 
was being committed, had naturally not 
troubled themselves to sally forth and ex- 
plore. There was no reason why a man 
bent on suicide, having inflicted the first 


wound on himself, should not have retained 
strength and consciousness to follow it up 
by the second. The revolver had been 
found lying only a few paces off, at a dis- 
tance to which he might easily have flung 
it with his own hand. 

In favour of the theory of murder, how- 
ever, one of the men who found the body 
stated that the bushes at the side of the 
road, which at that spot grew back, form- 
ing a kind of recess, had one or two boughs 
broken and trampled down, and he believed 
that somebody had hidden there. This, 
however, was merely his supposition ; and 
the branches on examination seemed no 
more broken than could easily have been 
accounted for in other ways ; besides even 
had clear marks of their being broken or 
trampled on by human means been detect- 



ed, it still would have afforded no clue as 
to the identity of the person treading them 
down. Suspicion fluttered and hovered 
about, from one quarter to another; but 
no incidents were found in the search of 
sufficient significance to afford any war- 
rantable presumption of any one's guilt, or 
even to throw any light upon the dark- 
ness of the moot question. 

There appeared to be no discoverable 
motive for the murder, if murder it was, 
indeed, unless the old, old story of lust for 
gold accounted for it. If this was the 
case, and he had been shot down for pur- 
poses of robbery, the murderers had in all 
probability committed their crime in vain, 
as his gold watch and chain were lying on 
his dressing-fcable at the villa, and, his 
pocket-book being also in his room, it was 


not likely tliat he should have had money 
about him. 

Although no other possible motive for 
the murder could be found existing, and 
no malice could be proved to have been 
borne by any living creature against the 
dead man, Rumour set in circulation 
twenty stories, any one of which would 
have solved the mystery, if anyone had had 
a surer foundation than a lively fancy and 
been woven out of anything more solid 
than air. He had flirted with a pretty 
Italian peasant-girl and roused her lover s 
vengeance — or her father's, or her brother's, 
as the story shifted its details. He had 
been too open in his admiration of a 
Countess — a married Countess. He had 
had words with an Italian nobleman who 
admired his betrothed, that lovely pale 


English girl. He had quarrelled with his 
betrothed. She had rejected him for 
another, and he shot himself in despair. 
And so on the romantic rumours ran, some 
favouring the suicide theory, and some 
that of murder. 

The revolver told no tales. It was a 
silver-mounted revolver with the letter M 
embossed on it; it was evidently some years 
old; of French make, and bore the mark of 
a Paris firm. This revolver was the topic 
of much discussion and speculation. The 
whole case of course hinged on the point 
of its ownership. Luli declared that she 
was positive that Duke had no revolver in 
his possession, for if he had he would cer- 
tainly have either shown it to her or men- 
tioned it to her. Other people held that it 
by no means followed, because he had 


never mentioned possessing a revolver to 
her, that lie did not possess one. 

Glencairn was cautious in all he said, 
and committed himself to no theory, but 
seemed on the whole to favour the suppo- 
sition of suicide, and pointed to the fact 
that the initial " M " on the weapon was 
presumptive evidence of its belonging to 
the deceased. 

" It is certainly odd that he should have 
carried loaded fire-arms in this peaceful 
neighbourhood," he observed once with an 
appearance of perplexity to Mr. Craven, 
"/never carry my pistol here, I keep it in 
my dressing-case in case of a night alarm." 

He opened the dressing-case casually 
as he spoke, and there the little ivory- 
duelling pistol lay, looking with its gilt 
filigree work like an innocent toy. 


" It miglit have been rather uncomfort- 
able," responded Mr. Craven coni&dentially, 
" if the revolver had not been found lying 
by him." 

"How?" asked Glencairn with his im- 
penetrable air. 

Mr. Craven looked embarrassed, and 
wished he had not made the remark. 

" Why, I mean, if it had not been found, 
you know — rather uncomfortable for — 
everybody round about this neighbourhood 
possessing fire-arms." 

" Oh, I see," said Glencairn, adding 
practically, " Those bullets would be a size 
too large for my pistol. That double- 
barrelled revolver carries more lead than 
this toy." 

" Where is it ?" inquired Mr. Craven. 

Glencairn's face clouded. 


" Lull has it," he replied shortly. " She 
would have fretted herself into a brain- 
fever if I had not let her have it. She has 
some wild notion of its proving a clue some 

The question of the manner in which 
Duke Mayburne came by his death re- 
mained a mystery. The result of all in- 
quiries was only the decision that by whom 
the death-wounds were inflicted there was 
no evidence to show. 

They buried him in the sunniest corner 
of a peaceful Italian churchyard, and 
sympathetic southern women shed easy 
tears over the young Englishman's untimely 
death, and hung wreaths of immortelles 
over his grave. 

When all was over, the party that had 
been so gay and happy, broke up in sorrow 


and in sjmpatlij, and went their separate 
ways. The Cravens were going on to 
Rome and Naples. Glencairn decided to 
take Luli straight back to England. 

It may sound paradoxical, but is never- 
theless as true as paradox often is, to say 
that if Luli had remained well in health she 
must in all probability have died under the 
ordeal of those terrible days and weeks, 
and that it was only her falling seriously 
ill that almost certainly saved her life. 
Had she been strong and able to exert her- 
self, she would have worn herself to death 
with the vehemence with which she would 
have pursued her inquiries ; and the recur- 
ring shocks of the various stages of the 
investigation, the strain of watching and 
sharing the quest that led to nothing, would 
have been too much for her to endure and 


live, delicate as she always had been. But 
as it was now, physical illness in some 
degree dulled mental anguish ; there were 
intervals during which she was scarcely 
conscious of the reality of her grief, in 
which it seemed only a spectre raised by 
her feverish imagination, that would fade 
and vanish in the light of day. Her ilU 
ness saved Glencairn also from many an 
almost unbearable trial ; for as the doctor 
imperatively commanded that she should 
be as little agitated as under the sad cir- 
cumstances was possible, it afforded some 
reason and some excuse for her father s 
avoiding all discussion of the tragedy with 
her, and confining his conversation almost 
exclusively to expressions of the tenderest 
anxiety about her health. 

After all, the utmost that could be said 


of Lull was that she lived through it. She 
did rise from her bed ; she did come back 
to earth, but came back as the very ghost 
of her former self. The doctor and her 
father both agreed in the opinion that a 
removal from all the associations of the 
Italian climate and the Italian tongue, and 
a return back to her native air, would be 
the best thing for her. She was not 
strong enough to travel much, and it was 
possible that intercourse with old friends 
and the influence of the old home might be 
beneficial to her. 

Luli herself seemed indifferent as to 
where she went or what came to her now, 
except as regarded the solution of the 
mystery. The only questions she put were 
as to the possibilities of more evidence 
being found ; the only time that she assert- 


ed her own will witli vehemence and 
energy was when she declared she would 
not stir from Italy unless she was assured 
that the investigation should not be 
dropped ; and that should ever any clue be 
found neither time nor money should bo 
spared in following it. Glencairn, with his 
iron and unscrupulous will, was resolved 
to take her back to Engla^nd. She had 
neither power nor desire to oppose him, 
when once she was assured that her will in 
this matter should be carried out, and had 
seen with her own eyes such instructions 
written in'the stron2:est and clearest terms. 
Meanwhile, during the arrangements of 
the two branches of the party, nothing had 
been said about Zora ; but it was supposed 
to be understood that the original plan 
with which they had left London should be- 


carried out, and tliat she would remain 
with the Cravens all the time they were in 

But now Zora longed to leave the 
Cravens and live amongst strangers, live 
anywhere or anyhow so long as it was 
away from them ! with a burning feverish 
longing that robbed her of all rest by night, 
all calm by day. She loved her good and 
true friends still, but their presence was 
yet now agony to her. To live under the 
eyes that had known Duke, that had look- 
ed on him at the last, that awful " last !" — 
to hear their constant allusions to him — 
their daily wonders and sympathies and 
regrets — to feel their frequent chance 
words strike at random on her terrible 
secret, making her tremble as one trembles 
on whose track the bloodhounds are set, 


when a lieavy hand strikes on the hollow 
panel behind which he lurks ! — all this was 
to pass daily through a martyrdom. Yet 
what excuse could she invent for escaping 
from it ? How could she get away ? How 
could she dare to acknowledge, even in the 
closest confidence to Kate, that she, who 
had no more right or claim to be agitated 
about '' this sad affair" than Kate herself 
had, was so shaken to the depth of her 
nature by it, that the very country she 
had longed to see was hateful to her, and 
the presence of her dearest friends a tor- 

The struggle by which she kept up ap- 
pearances was one that would have killed a 
woman physically weaker. But Zora, with 
all her nervous terrors and her moral 
cowardice, was physically strong. She bore 


it and lived. No brain-fever prostrated 
her ; no streaks of grey silvered her beau- 
tiful hair all through those awful days and 
nights. It was the energy of desperation 
that helped her to bear np and to guard 
her secret inviolate, although how she suc- 
ceeded in doing so was a marvel and a 
mystery even to herself. But from her 
childhood she had been a potential actress; 
the histrionic power never, save in rare 
moments of extreme emotion, deserted her; 
and in that faculty lay her safety now. 

In all her despair she had never, save 
in the uncontrollable anguish of that first 
day, lost the consciousness that she must 
keep the mask over her face. And on that 
first day, in the storm and tempest of 
horror and agitation all round her, her 
shrieks, her tears, her wild paroxysms of 


grief, had been lost, and passed unnoticed. 
If in their inmost hearts Mrs. Craven and 
Kate nurtured a faint suspicion that Zora 
had been a little more deeply interested in 
poor Duke than anyone before that terrible 
day had supposed — they suspected no more, 
and in natural delicacy kept their idea 
strictly silent. To Zora even Kate never 
ventured to breathe an allusion to it ; the 
subject was all too terrible, too painful, too 
sacred ; it raised a barrier between the two 
girls that became day by day more impos- 
sible to break down. Carefully, on her 
part, Zora, by her silence and her reserve, 
raised the barrier higher and higher, yet 
felt it would never be high enough to let 
her know a moment's sense of safety. 

She dared not let the mask slip for an in- 
stant ; she knew that if she were once to 



be betrayed unawares into confessing, — hj 
word or look, or silence in answer to any 
tentative remark, — that slie had kept her 
heart under such slight guard that it had 
let a hopeless love for Luli's lover enter and 
possess it, even though they might now in 
their hearts suspect the possibility of such 
an affection and such a sorrow, once 
worded and expressed, it might lead to 
dangerous inquiries ; while should they 
ever guess that the attachment was mutual, 
the match would be set to the train. She 
dared not think what the explosion would 
be ! With all she had suffered, she yet had 

" Fallen too low for special fear." 

She had done with hope ; but she was 
not past fear. The dread of that possible 
explosion was the only feeling that seemed 


living in her heart. All other feelings 
seemed numb and dead. But she was still 
alive to terror — terror for the ruinous blight 
that would fall on her name should all the 
story be disclosed ; for well she knew that 
the world would judge her hardly, and 
would not call her imprudence and indis- 
cretion by such mild terms; — terror for 
what might be the effect of a full exposure 
on Luli, for whom she felt a kind of re- 
morseful, passionate pity now ; — terror, 
above all, of Glencairn. 

She hated him and feared him ; she would 
start from her sleep at night, fancying she 
saw his shadow stealing along the wall; 
she would wake with a cry from dreams 
that his dark face was bending over her 
and his hand upon her shoulder. Yet it 

happened that at last it was to him she 




turned in her desperate seeking for some 
excuse to put the land and sea between her 
and the friends whose presence she could, 
not bear. She had reflected vaguely, with 
all her shrinking from him, that he alone 
of all the world could understand her 
horror of spending long months in confi- 
dential communication with the Cravens, 
her yearning to fly far from them. The 
daring and adventurous element was 
scarcely strong enough in her nature for her 
to leave them without excuse or explana- 
tion ; and besides this, she would scarcely 
have ventured to take such a step without 
Glencairn's knowledge, lest he should mis- 
interpret her flight as a threat to himself 
and follow her, for in no land, no sanctuary, 
would she ever have felt safe from his 


She felt a kind of relief when he spoke 
to her one day, saying coldly, but with 
scrutinising interest, 

"And you? what are your plans? you 
stay with the Cravens ?*' 

It happened by a rare chance that they 
two were for a few minutes alone. With 
all the despairing yearning of her soul in 
her eyes and her voice, catching even at 
the chance of his influence being able to 
help her, she answered, 

''What can I do but stay with them? 
What motive could I assign for leaving 
them — I who am alone ! I would give 
worlds to get away ! I must escape from 
these constant associations ! but what can 
I do ? how can I do it ?" 

"What can you do?" he repeated, and 
his lips almost imperceptibly curled with a 


careless scorn of the creature he deemed so 
purposeless and frail and weak. " Leave 
it to me/' he added after a moment's 

They had no time to say more ; but 
Glencairn had comprehended ; he reflected, 
and with his accustomed rapidity came to 
a conclusion. 

The one anchor that held him safe from a 
horror which even he did not dare to con- 
template, was Zora's secrecy. He thought 
that, all circumstance considered, he might 
trust in the probability of her keeping her 
oath. But there would be more danger, 
her power of secrecy would be more 
severely tested, by leaving her for months 
in daily close and confidential intimacy 
with the Cravens, far removed from his 
influence, and hearing almost daily wonders 


and speculations on the mystery of Duke 
Mayburne's death (as with the Cravens it 
would doubtless be a common topic of in- 
terest), than in throwing her into associa- 
tion with Luli for a few days under his 
own watchful eye. 

To take her with Luli to England, as 
the journey would only occupy a few days, 
and immediately they reached England 
to " part them well and wide apart," 
and during the journey to keep Zora 
under strict surveillance, would be safer 
than to leave her hundreds of miles away 
in the closest intimacy with a female bosom 
friend. He had no fear of Zora while she 
was under his own eye ; he knew too well 
the influence his look swayed over her. 

He made up his mind speedily. And so 
it happened that on the grounds of Luli's 


delicacy and her father's anxiety to have 
some lady travelling with her, of Zora's 
skill and helpfulness and sympathy in cases 
of illness, and also of a fictitious letter 
from a non-existent friend in London, Zora 
quitted the Cravens, parted from Kate with 
sobs and tears and kisses, — for she loved, 
and was grateful and remorsefully tender 
to, the friend whose presence was yet 
an hourly pain to her — travelled to Lon- 
don with the Glencairns, and left the fair 
land whose very name she for ever thence- 
forth shuddered at, far behind. 

That journey to England ! Was there 
one hour of it that Zora could ever forc^et ? 
Every hotel they rested at, every station 
they alighted at, every train and steamer 
that bore them on their way, was burnt 
into her memory. Yet, minutely as she 


remembered every detail, tlie whole journey 
seemed to her both then and thereafter not 
a reality, but a hideous long-continued 
dream. And looking back upon it in after- 
days, the memories of the hours of day- 
travelling, of carriage and of steamer, 
clear as they were, were yet faint and far 
off when compared with the vivid recollec- 
tion of the dream-like waking hours of 
night- travelling by rail. 

Almost every sensitive and impression- 
able imagination is moved and stirred by 
the mere fact of being whirled at express 
speed through the darkness by the power 
that humanity created, and yet that, as we 
watch it flame and roar by, seems so super- 
human. The impression wears out with 
custom, but surely it thrills us all at first. 

" The mightier horse we made 
To serve our nobler days !" 


"What is there of human in it, as we gaze 
on its headlong career that seems to lead 
to destruction? How it recalls to those 
who once have read them those noble lines 
of a poet admired even yet by too few, a 
household word still in too few homes ! 

" But now, unheard, I saw afar 
His cloud of windy mane, 
Now, level as a blazing star, 
He thunders thro' the plain ! 

" The life he needs, the food he loves, 
This cold earth bears no more ; 
He fodders on the eternal groves 
That heard the dragons roar. 

" Strong with the feast he roars and runs, 
And, in his maw unfurled, 
Evolves the folded fires of suns 
That lit a grander world. 

" Disdainful from his fiery jaws 
He snorts his vital heat. 
And, easy as his shadow, draws 
Long-drawn, the living street !" 

On Zora's nerves, high-strung and vi- 


brating to every influence moral or physi- 
cal now, the effect of this wild rushing 
through the darkness was strong and 
strange. She would sit staring out into 
the shadows with fixed and fascinated eyes, 
still as stone, as though she could never 
move again — watching the black hills and 
the black mysterious woods that seemed to 
her as if their density shrouded nameless 
horrors, — then watching the meadow-lands 
where the dusky plain blended into the 
dusky sky — watching the distant yellow 
glimmer of the lights of city or village — 
watching the tall black motionless trees 
that seemed to stand like spectre-sentinels 
stretching out their long black arms beside 
the line — watching the wayside stations 
where men waited to wave the light that 
was the signal of safety aloft, and where 


with a shrill shriek cutting the pall of 
smoke, and without a pause or an instant's 
slackening, the iron monster tore past in a 
storm of thunder and fire, the red sparks 
flying and flashing up in showers from the 
glowing wheels. 

It seemed all ghastly and unreal to her, 
and she sat mute as if in a trance, her 
senses seeming numbed, only vaguely 
wondering — where was it tending ? where 
would this frantic flight through the dark- 
ness end? It seemed impossible there 
•could be any end to it but death. She 
would think to herself — yet thinking it 
without any terror or shuddering, as one 
might think in a dream — that surely there 
must come a crash as of two worlds together, 
and one cry of many agonies, one burst of 
flame, and all would be ended for evermore. 


She never tliouglit of a beyond ; slie never 
trembled at the thought of such an end ; 
only she gazed out blankly into the night 
as one in a dream, with seeing but unheed- 
ing eyes. 

When daylight broke across the east, and 
the faint primrose of dawn rose and spread 
slowly above the horizon and deepened 
into glowing gold, she seemed to awake to 
a more real sense of life, and a part of tha 
nightmare of horror and mystery seemed 
to melt away with the vanishing shadows. 
Then she looked at Luli, who was shiver- 
ing in the chill of the early morning, and 
at Glencairn, who was folding the warm 
wrappers closer round her fragile figure. 
Zora turned her eyes away. She could not 
bear to look at Luli. "Would those great 
blue eyes of Lull's never lose that cravings 


look of watching, yearning, waiting^ again ? 

Zora never looked Glencairn full in the 
face ; she never glanced at him at all ex- 
cept by chance or necessity. But all the 
while, save in those tranced hours of the 
night during which she felt dead even to 
fear, she never lost the sense that he was 
keeping watch over her — a sleepless, re- 
lentless, merciless watch, like that of a 
tiger crouching on the path of its prey; — 
while over Luli at the same time he kept 
the unerring, eager, self- abnegating vigi- 
lance of love. 

So the ordeal of those few days' journey 
passed safely over ; the " silver streak of 
sea" was crossed; and the iron horse bore 
them through the smoke and over the 
dusky desert of tiled roofs, into the very 
heart of the great city. There were no 


hours of unbroken tete-a-tete between tlie 
two girls allowed; and even if there had 
been such, the influence of the ceaseless, 
silent vigilance that even in his absence 
seemed to surround them, would have shut 
Zora's soul apart from Luli's, and kept an 
impassable gulf open between them. 

On the very evening of their arrival in 
London the Glencairns and Zora parted, 
she returning to her old home, if home it 
could be called, though it was the nearest 
approach to home she knew. 

" I have to thank you for your kindness 
and attention to my daughter during our 
journey home," said Glencairn, ceremoni- 
ously, as he took farewell of her, " all the 
more so that we are sure the haste of 
our journey must have been some incon- 
venience to you. We hope you will keep 


this trifle in token of our gratitude. " 

He laid a little ivory pocket-book-purse 
on the table as he spoke. Zora started, 
and drew back as if some loathsome serpent 
had stung her, and raised her head reso- 
lutely, almost defiantly, as she looked at 

**I will take nothing from you," she 
said, shuddering. *' Money ! From you ! 
Not one penny if I were dying of starva- 
tion ! Never !" 

"As you choose," he replied coldly, and 
bowed as he made way for her to pass. 

But a little parcel went to Zora the next 
day, with an innocent, pleading, friendly 
letter from Luli, begging Zora not to hurt 
her by refusing. The writing. Lull's clear 
running hand, was tremulous and shaken 
now ; and Zora shuddered as she read the 


simple friendly words; and wept over them, 
but did not refuse. It was but little she 
could do to gratify Luli now ! 

Glencairn was sitting in his usual arm- 
chair by the fire. Luli was not in her old 
place at his feet ; she was sitting opposite 
him, her hands lying listlessly in her lap, 
abandonment, despondency, and life-weari- 
ness in her whole look and attitude, and in 
her eyes that strained and painful look of 
watching, waiting for the lifting of a veil 
that might never be raised. 

'* Luli," he said, breaking the silence, 
"we are alone and in our own country 
now. What do you wish ? Where can I 
take you ? and how shall we live ?" 

*' As you like, papa dear. I do not 
care," she said, wearily. His face clouded 
"more in sorrow than in anger." 



" Try to care, Lull, for my sake. Ee- 
member that you are all I have," lie said, 
not agitatedly nor at all reproacMuUy, but 
with the deliberate earnestness that with 
him meant the deepest feeling. 

*^ Forgive me, dear !" she said, impulsive- 
ly, her eyes filling with tears ; and she rose 
up, and went to him, and knelt by his side. 
She laid her head down on his shoulder ; 
he passed his hand tenderly over her golden 
hair, and neither spoke for some moments, 
only in the silence each heard the other 
stifle back a deep, deep sigh. Then Luli 
said, struggling to control her voice and to 
speak steadily, 

" We are all to each other. You are all 
I have — now. Darling, I will try for your 

Her voice broke in a sob ; but in her 


sorrow it was to her father she clung, 
and on her father's breast her tears were 

Soothing her tenderly, but with resolute 
calm, as she wept, he said, 

" I wish you were a child again ! I could 
comfort you then." 






*' O moonlight deep and tender ! 
A year and more agone, 
Thy mist of golden splendour 
Round my betrothal shone. 

*' O elm-trees dark and dewy ! 
The very same ye seem ; 
The low wind whispers through ye, 
Ye murmur in my dream ! 

*' O river dim with distance ! 
Flow thus for ever by ! 
A part of my existence 
Within thy banks doth lie !" 

rpHE season is neither Spring nor Sum- 
mer, but the lovely mingling of the 
beauties of both in the transition stage, 
lovely as the sunrise that follows the 
clear grey dawn and brightens the way for 


the rosy morniug, lovely as tlie tender 
mellow hour, golden with the western glow, 

" That comes between the day -fall and the night." 

The place is not London,' but sufficiently 
near it for the great iron horse, "the 
matchless steed of the strong Kew World," 
to bear you, before the hour-glass has 
run one course, from the green trees and 
the fair flower-gardens into the smoke and 
stir of the great city. And thus, 

"Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite 
Beyond it, blooms the garden — " 

where the Glencairns now spend their 
leisure hours under the blue, soft sky of 
early Summer. 

They had taken for the season the villa 
called "The Chalet," a cognomen which 
exercises the village postman's pronuncia- 
tion as he experimentalises on its two 


syllables with an ingenuity worthy of a 
better cause. Why it is called " The 
Chalet " is not clear, unless the reason be 
that a lively imagination might contrive to 
trace some reminiscences of Switzerland in 
the six thin fir-trees which stand in a row 
by the garden-gate, and in the green 
verandah which runs half way round the 
house. They have taken it furnished, in- 
cluding the live-stock — item, a watch-dog, 
two cats, a hedgehog, and a dozen fowls, 
which are supposed to supply them with 
eggs and Spring chickens, but which do 
not afford much ground for this supposi- 
tion. A pony was not included in the 
list ; but Glencairn has hired a steady and 
manageable old pony and a low basket- 
chaise, that Luli may drive about the 
neighbourhood and enjoy fresh air without 


the fatigue of walking. For communica- 
tion with the railway-station, this vehicle 
is not a necessity, as the station is but a 
little distance off, and Glencairn always 
walks to and from it ; thus pony and chaise 
are left almost entirely at Luli's disposal. 
The house was recommended as an '' Ele- 
gantly Furnished Bijou ;" and fairly merits 
the description. It has a pretty light 
drawing-room with a good piano, a com- 
fortable though somewhat sombre dining- 
room, and an intermediate library, well 
stocked, but from whose stock these tem- 
porary tenants do not reap much advant- 
age, as most of the books are locked up 
behind lattice-barred glass doors whose key 
cannot be found. The volumes are all so 
elegantly and newly bound and arranged 
with such faultless regularity that Luli 


sometimes doubts whether they are not 
merely dummies, or whether it is that the 
owner of the house considered in his pur- 
chases the outside of a book as its best part, 
and had never looked inside his stock of 

In the dining-room this evening are sit- 
ting Glencairn and an old friend of his,. 
Martin Griffiths, who has lately reappeared 
after some ten or dozen years of absence in 
Australia. They have dined, and Luli has 
left them to linger over their dessert. 

Since the Autumn that bereft Luli of her- 
lover and cut a gulf across her life to 
separate her from her happy girlhood for 
ever, another Autumn has come and gone, 
and the second Spring is blossoming into 
the second Summer. 

Glencairn seems however in no way 


altered, save tliat the dark in his liair is 
now fast yielding to the grey. He leisure- 
ly cracks his walnuts and listens to what 
his friend is saying, with the same half- 
abstracted, yet keenly perceptive smile as 
of old ; he speaks with the same quietude, 
the same occasional rapid inflections from 
a reserve almost morose to a geniality that 
is almost gay, yet never quite light-hearted 
now. More than ever now Glencairn would 
suggest to a student of psychology the 
impression of a man who lives to himself 
alone, who alike in his sins and his virtues 
is shut apart in a sort of half savage isola- 
tion of soul, whom no external influence 
touches, no opinion of others moulds, 
because he lives in a spiritual wilderness 
where no perception of the principles by 

which others guide their lives, can reach 


Martin Grifl&tlis however is no psjcliolo- 
gist; lie looks but seldom beneath the surface^ 
and has seen but little of Glencairn in this 
recent renewal of their long-ao^o intimacy. 
This old comrade of Glencairn's is about a& 
unlike Glencairn as a man can well be, 
except that he too has the look of a man 
who has lived and fought battles. Only 
his battles have not been wrestlings of good 
and evil, but material conflicts with tho 
winds and waves, with the wolf at the door, 
with the craft of humanity, and with the- 
force of circumstances. He is a fair, big, 
broad-shouldered, travelled Englishman, 
with an honest, pleasant smile and frank 
blue eyes that do not look as if they could 
keep a secret. He is not handsome ; he is 
bearded and bronzed and weather-beaten, 
and past the prime of life ; but a face witk 


that expression of strength and truth and 
kindliness cannot be wholly unattractive. 

They have talked over old times and 
new times, and given each other hastily 
outlined sketches of the way the world has 
been using them these many years. Then, 
during a silence, Martin Griffiths glances 
out into the garden through the folding 
French windows, which are thrown open. 
Along the gravel-path, beyond the veran- 
dah and the flower-border, a figure is 
passing slowly by — a tall slender graceful 
female figure, her black dress sweeping 
softly and lightly over the pebbly path, a 
black lace scarf flung over her head and 
falling on her shoulders. 

''You have a lovely daughter, old 
fellow," observes Griffiths, following the 
dark, graceful, shadowy form with his eyes. 


" She is better than she looks," the other 
replies briefly. 

" It is a beautiful face," continues Martin 
Griffiths, " but ' so pale, so delicate ! Is 
she well in health ?" 

" She is never very strong ; but she is 
not ill. I hope she will be all right some 
day ; it seems to me that she is gradually 
growing stronger." 

Griffiths cast another look at Luli, then 
looked back at his friend, curiously, and 
somewhat hesitatingly. 

'* Pardon my asking, Glencairn," he said 
at last, '* but — is she in mourning for any- 
one ?" and his tone implied another ques- 
tion beyond his mere words. 

Glencairn looked for once a little sur- 
prised, and his keen eyes shot one quick 
look under their brows at Griffiths. 


" How did you guess ?" he said very 
quietly. " She had a loss ; it is long ago 
now. She has gob into the habit of wear- 
ing black, and I have not chosen to thwart 

Martin Griffiths asked no more, and 
Glencairn told no more. 

" It is getting too late for her to be out," 
he said, and turning to the window called 
Luli in. 

She came iu obediently, from the dusky 
garden into the lighted room. 

Luli is changed, sadly changed, but is 
beautiful still, only now it is a beauty painful 
in its fragility and transparent delicacy. She 
looks all the paler for the unrelieved black 
of her attire ; the eye rests with relief on 
the one gleam of colour, the still bright 
luxuriance of her golden hair shining 
beneath the black lace scarf. Her cheeks 


are hollower than of old ; her eyes have a 
dreamy, far-away, yearning look ; and over 
her whole face, figure, and expression, even 
when she smiles, lies the undefinable 
shadow that is never cast by physical 
suffering alone, and that bears witness 
mutely — " Un grand malheur a passe par 

*^Are you not foolish to stay out in 
the night air, child ?" 

" It is not cold, dear," she says, and her 
voice is as sweet and caressing as in the 
past, but has a sadder intonation. " You 
are not tired yet of your wine and walnuts 
surely ?" she adds with a smile, the tender 
light of which beams first upon her father, 
but a ray of it passes on to Martin 
Griffiths before it fades away, and her lips 
settle into their habitual pensiveness. 



" We have had enough wine and wal- 
nuts; we are coming into the drawing- 
room with you now," they reply, rising 
together with a commendable unity of 

So they pass from the dining-room 
into the little library adjoining, and lift 
aside the heavy curtains that hang across 
the arch where the folding doors should 
be, and pass on from the library into the 

There is a piano there ; but some instinct 
of delicacy withholds Mr. Griffiths from 
asking if Luli plays or sings. It is Glen- 
cairn who bids her go to the piano and give 
them a little music ; and Luli obeys prompt- 
ly as ever. 

It pleases her father to hear her ; and 
so, although music is as full of memories to 


her as to every sensitive nature, and she 
can never play or sing without feeling a 
flow of recollections rise — if a tide can be 
said to rise that never ebbs ! — still for his 
pleasure she wakes the old melodies again. 
She sings modern ballads and simple Italian 
airs. Only old English ballads she is never 
heard to sing now ! The old English bal- 
lads which Duke Mayburne loved and taught 
her to love too, are silent for ever so far us 
Lull's lips are concerned. 

When she has sung for a little while, not 
long, for singing is an exertion, and she is 
not equal to any fatigue, they talk, and in 
the general conversation all three take 
part ; Luli is not shy, and she and Martin 
GriflBths are scarcely on the ordinary terms 
of a gentleman and lady meeting for the 

first time. He is an old friend of her 



father's ; so they are quite at home to- 
gether ; they discuss society, theories, 
England and Australia, and a little shallow 
general politics, not getting out of Lull's 
depth ; it is Martin Griffiths who chiefly 
takes care not to steer beyond the shallows 
of the uncultivated feminine intellect. Luli 
gets interested in the discussion, and mani- 
fests her interest ; Glencairn's eyes brighten 
gravely as he notes her animation; and 
when Martin Griffiths at parting says, 

" Well, I am over at The Cedars, you 
know. I dare say I shall look you up to- 

Glencairn replies with unusual warmth, 

" Do, old fellow. We shall expect you 
to breakfast, lunch, dinner, or tea." 

It is a year and a half since Duke May- 
burne's tragic and still mysterious death. 


He is not forgotten even in tlie large circle 
of those friends who gave him but light 
liking and superficial careless admiration 
during his life. Now his memory endures 
amongst them haloed around with more 
interest and romance than his presence 
ever was. They tell the story still to 
strangers of how he left England for a 
pleasure-trip in the full hey-day of youth 
and happiness and prosperity, never to 
return ; and how the next season when his 
place was vacant it cast a damp and a 
shadow over them all. They indulge in sur- 
mises as to his fate, and the popular ideay espe- 
cially among the gentler sex, is "brigands." 
There are so many relics left of him in the 
magazines and illustrated papers of the past 
seasons, that memories of him are always 
staring his friends in the face whenever 


they turn out odd corners of their libraries. 
His Rembrandt-shadowed landscapes, his 
classic female figures, whose features 
during that last season one and all as- 
sumed a certain likeness to Luli Glencairn, 
— how vividly these recall him now ! and 
how far more brilliant promise people dis- 
cern in them now that the promise is 
blighted than in the days when it was a 
living power amongst them, maturing and 
developing month by month ! 

And for Luli, when her eyes fall by 
chance on these memorials — all that are 
left to remind the world of him — this 
" Thames by Moonlight," with the coarse 
engraving of which he was so wroth, this 
" On Board the Invincible," at which he 
worked in such hot haste by night and day, 
this "Medora"that has her eyes and A^r 


expression, — what feelings rusli over her 
and blind her to present and future, who 
shall say? 

" For recollections are as seas, 
That come and go in tides, and these 
Are flood-tides filling to the eyes." 

On the question as to how far Lull has 
recovered from her bereavement, and ral- 
lied from the shock that nearly was her 
death, there exists a wide difference of opinion 
among her friends. Some decide that she 
has quite got over it — " why ! she smiles, 
and even laughs, and never talks about him, 
poor fellow ! now " — and that any altera- 
tion in her is attributable purely and solely 
to ill-health. Others shake their heads, 
and declare that she never will get over it. 
One woman only, — well-nigh as rare among 
her sex as a blue dahlia among the garden 
flowers ! — acknowledges that it is difficult to 


decide on sucli points, and holds the un- 
orthodox creed that to interpret the cipher 
of another human heart from a casual 
stranger's view of the face, to fathom with 
the conventional line and plummet of ordi- 
nary acquaintance the exact depth of 
another's sorrow, is not quite so easy as to 
commit to memory the A B C of drawing- 
room etiquette. 

But this lady's view is exceptional. Half 
of the world (of the Glencairns' little world), 
say that " he who runs may read " that Luli 
Glencairn is not fretting at all now. The 
other half declare equally positively that 
she is breaking her heart. 

Her father watches her and says nothing. 
He knows that Luli has proved herself 
stronger than he had dared at first expect 
her to be ; he knows that she is the best of 


daughters; but lie scarcely realises how 
much her affection for him, and her anxiety 
not to grieve him, have to do with her 
strength in enduring, her patience in con- 
cealing. She knows well that she is the 
one idol of his heart ; and it is her con- 
stant effort to give to him, — not gratitude 
and love, for they need no effort, — but all 
the happiness, or the alloy that passes cur- 
rent for the rare gold of happiness, that it 
is in her power to bestow. She keeps her 
tears to herself, her smiles for him. 

Thus, although these two seem so closely 
united, and are so nearly allied, his dark 
soul is scarcely more utterly unknown to 
her than is her pure and spotless soul to 
him. Their spirits are strangers to each 
other, and each walks its path alone. 

She smiles on him, and obeys his wishes, 


and in a thousand little daily duties is the 
household angel now. All the while she 
is living in a dream ; the dream is reality 
to her, and earth and all earth's belong- 
ings seem the dream. Truly in this she 
sees not with blinded but with cleared 
eyes. Shall not all earth melt from us one 
day, melt as a cloud from the face of the 
sun? Shall not the world in which we 
have lived our inner life, the life unknown 
to even our dearest, endure when earth ha& 
sunk away from our feet ? 

Glencairn only sees that Luli is fair and 
young and beautiful, and still in the spring- 
time of her life ; he trusts that before the 
Summer of her beauty shall reach its zenith, 
her sorrow shall be forgotten, and the sun 
of new hopes shall shine in the future, and 
the shadow of her first love lie behind her 
in the past. 


He watches her when she smiles and the 
sun slants on her fair hair and lends a re- 
flected glow to her cheek ; and he says in 
his heart, rebuking his own past fear, 

" She will be strong one day ; she is 
growing stronger. I shall see my darling 
well and happy yet." 



" Shame fa' the hand that I should take 
It twinned me and my warld's maik !" 

" Your cherry cheeks and your yellow hair 
Gar'd me gang maiden evermair !" 

Old Ballad. 

TT seems impossible, while looking on the 
surging snow of the cataract dashing 
itself in thunder on the rocks, to realise 
that a few miles further it runs a smooth 
and rapid rippling riyer between fair green 
banks. So it is impossible at the time of 
a tragedy of life and death to realise that 
the currents of the surviving lives will but 
a brief while hence run smooth and wave- 
less again. Yet look, how from the whirl- 


pool of the cataract, the stream struggles 
free at last from the circling eddies and 
bursts over and through the rocks until it 
gains the channel where it flows on swift and 
smooth, a purling meadow-stream again. 

Glencairn and his daughter are in calm 
waters now. They have weathered the 
storm, and he deems that they are clear of 
the breakers, and safe from sunken rocks. 

Life at the little Swiss-named villa with 
the green verandah and the six fir-trees 
flows on in an unruffled current that is 
even dull and sluggish in its utter peace. 
Luli wishes vaguely, languidly sometimes, 
that it flowed with a trifle less level mono- 
tony. She has no girl-friends, indeed, no 
intimate friends at all in the neighbour- 
hood ; and she is left a great deal alone, as 
Glencairn, to sa}^ nothing of the frequent 


solitary rambles, on wliicli he does not 
invite her to accompany him, often goes 
up to the town for the day, on business 
'bent, and spends a fair portion of his time 
in being whirled at express speed over the 
rails by the fleetest of the iron steeds that 
rush snorting smoke on their way across 
the fields, within view of the temporary 
home where Luli watches them from the 
window as they bear her father to and fro. 
Sometimes he takes her with him, but 
not often ; partly because he says it is a 
useless fatigue for her, and she is better in 
the garden among the trees or in the 
drawing-room with her books and embroid- 
ery, ready to greet him, fair and smiling, 
when he comes home — and partly because 
when in London she will never be content 
without visiting the Cravens. And the 


Cravens, althougli Glencairn likes them 
personally, stand between Lull and forget- 
fulness, between himself and peace ; and 
then at their house there is always the pos- 
sibility of meeting Zora Brown. 

The very cause that leads Glencairn to 
shun the Cravens, is the cause that draws 
Luli towards them, with an unfailing mag- 
netism that neither time nor absence seems 
to have any power to weaken. She loves all 
those who are associated with her happy 
days ; and to visit the Cravens, and there 
to run the chance of meeting Zora Brown, 
is one of the few things that ever stir and 
interest her now. But the chances of 
meeting Zora are few and far between ; 
the paths that crossed once so fatally have 
diverged wide apart. Zora, after drifting 
about as a waif and stray for some months. 


has drifted into a harbour, and obtained a 
home as companion and amanuensis to a 
blind lady living in the country, and thus 
rarely sees even the Cravens. 

This is well for Glencairn. The sight of 
her, the mention of her, is always to him 
as a touch on a hidden wound that stings 
and darts unseen as sharply still as on the 
day when the steel first flashed and fell. 
It is not because she, and she alone, could 
set in motion investigations that might 
weave together stray floating threads of 
suspicion and evidence into a net whose 
meshes should close round him and drag 
him even to the scaffold. This is an^unlikely 
contingency, a fate he never contemplates, 
and thus of which he has no fear. It is 
not because her hand might set this 
machinery in motion that his soul recoils 


at sight or mention of her. It is because a 
word of hers could call down the thunder- 
bolt that should slay at once his already 
drooping flower, whose brightness he 
trusts the Summer sun may restore. For 
day after day she tells him that she is 
stronger, and will be blooming when the 
Summer is in its full bloom. 

He watches her with a jealous care. He 
almost begins to deem, as time goes on, that 
he has bought a right to demand her well- 
being by the price he paid. It sometimes 
appears to him that he has struck a bar- 
gain with Fate. He has paid, and Fate 
will not cheat him, surely. He has taken 
her to southern climates in the Winter ; he 
seeks the balmiest or the most bracing air 
accordingly as he deems she needs the one 
or the other. If loving care can cure her 



Luli will live and be well, will be strong 
and bappy yet. He keeps ber to bimself 
as mucb as possible now, guards ber to 
tbe utmost of bis power from all old 
associations ; be even pusbes tbis exclu- 
siveness to tbe extent of placing obstacles 
in tbe way of ber being too mucb or too 
long witb ber kind old aunts. Tbere is 
seldom any brigbt young presence to cbeer 
up tbe *' Ancients " now. Miss Priscilla 
grieves at tbis ; Miss Cbristiana resents it. 
Botb alike take a gloomy view of Lulfs 
state of bealtb. But wbile Miss Cbristiana 
maintains ber old antagonistic attitude to- 
wards Glencairn, ber sister is melted still, 
even as sbe was of old, by tbe evidence of 
bis affection for Luli. 

" I suppose you tbink bim a fit guardian 
for a delicate cbild like tbat ?" says Miss 


Christiana, who regards Luli still as a 
child, Glencairn still as a very thinly dis- 
guised wolf. 

"As fit as any ma?n can be!" responds 

Miss Priscilla, who shares her sister's 
opinions as to the general helplessness of 
mankind, though Christiana goes a step 
further, and thinks the nobler sex are a 
useless excrescence on the face of 
humanity. '^ He is perfectly devoted to 
her, if ever I saw devotion in a man !" 

" Which you never did !" rejoins the 
other sister drily, continuing with much 
decision, " She's afraid of him ! She 
daren't say her soul's her own before him ! 
She seems perfectly crushed." 

This is an obstinate delusion of Miss 
Christiana's, and Miss Priscilla replies 
truly enough, 



" Ab, poor dear ! it's not that she's 
afraid to speak, it's that she doesn't care. 
She hasn't the strength or the spirit to 
take the bright interest in everything that 
she used to do." 

" We are the most natural guardians to 
take care of her now her health is so poor. 
Why doesn't he bring her to us T demands 
Miss Christiana. 

" 1 miss the dear child as much as you 
can do ; but 1 can understand, poor fellow, 
his reluctance to part from her even for a 
day ! He knows she may not be very long 
for this world. She has the look on her 
face her poor mother had before she died." 

Then the two old ladies sighed a plaint- 
ive duet of regrets and forebodings. 

This gloomy view, which it was evident 
to Glencairn, although they never uttered 


it to him, they took of Luli, naturally did 
not predispose him to throw her much 
under their influence. Luli never, in her 
secret heart, objected to the loneliness of 
their present life ; but it was an indisput- 
able fact that it was lonely, and she knew 
it, without caring to change it. Their quiet, 
pretty home was just sufficiently far from 
town to prevent London friends from 
" dropping in " often, — a consequence 
which was not unpleasant to Glencairn, as 
it helped to keep Luli apart from the 
Cravens and old associations; yet it was 
sufficiently in the country for the residents 
in the neighbourhood to form a clique, 
into which admission on intimate terms 
was not easy. Some kindly attention was 
shown to the inmates of the Chalet, chiefly 
for the sake of the delicate-looking girl 


whose sweet face attracted a certain 
amount of interest. But the door of the 
heart of the clique did not open to the 
Glencairns, perhaps because Glencairn never 
sought the key. 

It was a conservative and conventional 
clique ; Glencairn was something new and 
strange to it ; he startled and half-shocked 
it ; he uttered heterodox sentiments calcu- 
lated to turn society topsy-turvy ; he would 
be capriciously cold and stiff when they 
expected him to be expansive, and rough 
and reserved when they deemed he should 
be most genial. The very servants of the 
house spread anecdotes of Mr. Glencairn's 
'' queerness," which, being incomprehensi- 
ble, did not tend to his acceptance into the 
favour of his neighbours, who liked to see 
things clear and transparent and easily ex- 


plicable. "Why did he never sleep without 
locking his door ? why did he sit up to un- 
orthodox hours of the night with no valid 
reason or excuse for so doing ? why did he 

sometimes pass the night in pacing up and 
down without sleeping at all ? Why, above 
all, did he absent himself for hours, and 
even days, without a word of warning, and 
return without a word of explanation ? 
And why was his temper so fitful that on 
some days the servants would declare they 
" knew from his look at breakfast that he 
would be hectoring at them about one 
thing and another, with or without reason, 
from morning to night !" 

So it happens that the Glencairns lead a 
far more isolated life than their neighbours 
to the immediate north and south and east 
and west ; and that the visits of Martin 


Griffiths are proportionately welcome. 

He has discovered, he says, that " The 
Cedars " (that being a small establishment 
kept by a respectable married pair, too 

select for an hotel, too sociable for a lodg- 
ing-house) is the most delightful resort for 
quiet and country air that can be found 
within easy distance of London. It is evi- 
dent that he likes it exceedingly, for he 
spends a great many of his days there, and 
of those days he always devotes a portion 
to visiting a few friends who are scattered 
round the neighbourhood, and first on the 
list of these friends stand the Glencairns. 

By degrees that are not slow, that are, 
indeed, as rapid as they can be, he becomes 
a frequent visitor there — the only frequent 
visitor that they receive. Two men more 
utterly opposite in manner and character 


than Griffiths and Glencairn, it would be 
hard to find ; yet they have an honest, if 
superficial, liking for each other. There is 
besides the strong tie of old comradeship 
between them. They have prospected for 
gold in New Mexico together, and after 
parting on the Pacific coast, have found 
themselves thrown together again upon the 
South Sea Islands. The bond of frater- 
nity between two rovers who have roved 
the world through, and whose erratic paths 
have crossed and parted and met again, is 
no frail one. Still it is not very difficult 
to perceive that now Glencairn — although 
he may be an attraction, and even a strong 
one — is not the only attraction that draws 
Martin Griffiths so often to the Chalet. 

The evident admiration of his old friend 
and comrade for his daughter gratifies 


Glencairn, alike because it appeals to his 
paternal vanity, and proves to him that, 
even now, in her paleness and frailness of 

aspect, it is not only in his eyes that his 
darling is lovely still, and because it opens 
to his imagination a dim possibility of 
future consequences. Martin Griffiths is 
a good fellow, sound and true to the core ; 
he is well off in this world's goods too, and 
he is not old in Glencairn's estimation, 
whatever he may be in Luli's, who, indeed, 
has never thought about him at all. 

Glencairn has not thriven remarkably 
well in his ventures in business lately, 
though he has not lost sufficiently to be 
obliged to curtail his personal expenditure, 
or to deprive Luli of her last Winter at 
Nice, or her previous Summer on the Eng- 
lish lakes. She is provided for, too ; he 


has long ago secured her against all future 
contingencies as regards pecuniary loss ;; 
and thus, knowing that the provision for 
her is safe and untouched, he has been 
playing rather rashly in the financial game 
of late. He is more reckless and more 
obstinate than of old. Never very apt to 
follow advice, he now seems to delight 
in defying it. Indeed, in the eyes of per- 
fect strangers and business acquaintances, 
he seems more changed than either to Mar^ 
tin Griffiths, who sees him for the first 
time after many years, and always thought 
him a " a queer fellow ;" or to Luli, whose 
world is all changed, and to whom no things 
nor place nor person seems the same as a 
year and a half ago. 

One fine morning they are going up to 
town to see the Royal Academy, and Grif- 


fiths has come over early, immediately 
after breakfast, from the Cedars (the road 
from the Cedars to the Chalet is so fre- 
quently trodden by him that the lady of 
the Cedars remarks, with mild pleasantry, 
that she expects to see permanent impres- 
sions of his footprints in the beaten track). 
He is going to accompany them, of course, 
and as they have time before the train 
starts, they are lingering on the lawn, and 
Martin GriflB.ths is left to catalogue the 
beauties of Nature, while Luli runs to put 
on her hat. Coming back, she finds Mr. 
Griffiths occupied in the seemingly un- 
characteristic business of arranging a nose- 
gay. He has ruthlessly plucked the fairest 
white early Devonshire rose from its parent 
tree, has grouped with it a sprig or two of 
heliotrope, of fern, and a bunch of hearts- 


ease, and is employed in binding the whole 
together with a twist of long grass. 

^'Why, Mr. Griffiths, I didnt know tha 
arrangement of bouquets was in your line !" 

" You thought my clumsy fingers weren't 
up to this kind of thing," observes Mr* 
Griffiths, regarding his handiwork with 
simple and naive approval. '* But when I 
was young I had rather a gift of arranging 
bouquets." He comes to an abrupt stop in 
the way people do when they have not 
finished all they were going to say. 

" So I should fancy. It is very prettily 
arranged," says Luli in her gentle cour- 
teous way. 

Mr. Griffiths' method of presenting his 
offering is brusque and might by some 
ladies accustomed to refined petits soms 
have been deemed uncouth. 


*^You take it, please," he says, some- 
Tvliat abruptly pushing it into her hand. '' I 
made it for you." And the big, broad- 
shouldered, sun-bronzed man, with the 
grizzled threads in his hair, fairly colours, 
with the incongruous flush of middle age, 
as the girl for a moment is silent. But it is 
only a moment's silence of a partly flattered 
and gently amused surprise, that is only 
one degree removed from indifference, al- 
though she smiles very gratefully and 
sweetly, and the flitting ghost of a blush 
warms up her paleness, as she looks up at 
him and takes the " bouquet" with thanks. 
She hesitates just another moment, and 
then loosening the jet brooch that fastens 
her scarf upon her breast, she pins the 
ilowers there. It is done on a slight un- 
conscious impulse of graceful girlishness, 


carelessly and without thought. But both 
Griffiths and Glencairn, who stands by them, 
notice only the surface, the smile, the faint 
fleeting flush, the gentle dreamy eyes 
downcast upon the hands fastening the 
flowers ; and a brighter smile flashes un- 
consciously across both faces. It is a glad 
tenderness, and a hope that yet dares not 
triumph too soon, that lightens Glencairn's 
stern features ; though even in his gladdest 
and tenderest look there is ever an after- 
thought that is rather of defiance than 

" Now, child of mine, if your toilette is 
finished, it is nearly time we should be 
moving," he observes in a tone so much 
lighter and heartier than usual that Luli's 
mobile face reflects a sympathetic bright- 
ness as they cross the lawn together ; and 


she looks pretty enough to melt a colder 
heart than Martin Griffiths', with the bunch 
of flowers nestling on the bosom of her 
black dress, and a soft, long black feather 
trailing from her hat down over her fair 
braided hair. 

They take the train to London and drive 
to the Royal Academy, where they do 
as ninety-nine out of a hundred do, divide 
their attention between the pictures and 
the people, obeying the call of duty suffici- 
ently to devote the greater part of their 
attention to the former object. It requires 
the absorption of a connoisseur to shut 
one's eyes resolutely to the multitude of 
one's fellow- creatures bent on the same 
errand, gazing on the same object with such 
infinite variety of expression, and most of 
them marching so valiantly under the stand- 


ard of duty. These latter have come 
firstly to see, secondly to form their opinion 
with an eye to future conversation ; and 
they do their best to carry out the cam- 
paign. Sometimes in the formation of 
their opinion they make some curiously 
wrong shots, but the intention of self- 
culture is laudable all the same. These 
people who do not know anything about 
art are so very much more amusing to 
watch than those who do, that it is no 
wonder if they divide attention with the 
ostensible object of the exhibition. They 
are in their glory around every realistic bit 
of domestic life. They can understand, 
and criticise freely and with confident 
voice, every pretty chubby child and lovely 
young mother and forlorn widow. They 
are happy in their comments on life-sized 



portraits of celebrities too ; but around es- 
says of bigh art, around classic tableaux 
wbicb do not arouse family sympatbies, 
tbey are subdued ; tbey are not quite sure 
wbat to admire. 

*' Wbat's tbat ugly tbing ?" inquires one 
young lady of anotber, pointing to a pic- 
ture on tbe line. Tbe second consults ber 

" It's by an E.A. ; see !" sbe says, indi- 
cating tbe name. 

Tbe first appears taken aback. After a 
moment sbe rejoins, 

" Well, now I come to look at it in tbis 
ligbt, tbe colouring is very fine. Yes ; it 
certainly is a masterpiece." 

One old gentleman Luli notices especially; 
be is bent double witb an eye-glass, peering 
intently into tbe face of tbe principal female 


figure in a certain celebrated painter's 
work, so closely tliat he cannot possibly 
see anything in her beauty but blotches 
and ridges of flesh-colour ; his nose all but 
touches the canvas. Having for some 
ten minutes been, by his exclusive devo- 
tion to the lady's forehead, the cynosure of 
a good deal of amused attention, he trans- 
fers his inspection to the tip of a pretty 
foot that is peeping out below her robe as 
she reclines on her couch. He has almost 
to kneel on the ground to bring his eye- 
glass on a level with this, but he is not 
deterred, and cramped into a kind of note 
of interrogation, he glues his nose and his 
eye-glass to the lady's foot. 

" Is he bent on making an exact copy of 
the flesh-tints ?'' conjectures Luli, " or is 
he a moralist drawing some kind of lesson 



from the effects of proximity in proving 
the beautiful to be ugly?" 

" He evidently doesn't think that ' dis- 
tance lends enchantment to the view/ " 
suggests Glencairn. 

Griffiths only opines that he is a " rum 
old fellow ;" and then observes, regarding 
Luli, " I think it would take a good deal of 
proximity to make a pretty living face look 
ugly, however it may be in paint !" 

Luli has got a catalogue and pencil, and 
has been busily marking out the pictures 
she especially desires to criticise or admire. 
Before she has got half through the list, 
however, she is rather tired ; and as Mr. 
Griffiths evidently prefers her society to the 
masterpieces, Glencairn leaves them com- 
fortably seated on one of the broad soft 
ottomans which a beneficent committee 

GLENOAIllN. 117 

provides for the weary devotees of Art, 
while he explores further. 

Luli would rather have been left to repose 
herself alone ; but she accepts the situation 
with her accustomed docility, and reflects 
that it is her duty to do her best to amuse 
poor Mr. Griffiths, and the glance Glencairn 
turns back to them from the door shows 
him that they are bending their heads to- 
gether over the marked catalogue, and 
pencilling it further, and apparently chat- 
ting congenially and pleasantly. 

Consequently he is surprised when, on 
his return from the further gallery, he 
discovers in the room adjoining that in 
which he had left the other two, Mr. 
Griffiths alone, contemplating a masterpiece 
of Millais's and looking unconsciously dis- 


** Where's Lull ? isn't she well ?" 

" She has met a friend," explained Mr. 
Griffiths, **a young lady; and I thought 
they would like to have a quiet chat toge- 
ther, so I thought it as well to leave them 

"What young lady? who is it?" asked 

The vague answer, " Oh — a pretty- 
looking girl with dark curly hair," informed 
him at once. 

He was quite prepared to see the not 
very welcome sight that was awaiting him, 
of Zora Brown in the place Martin Griffiths 
had occupied beside Luli. 

Zora was more beautiful than ever, 
although she looked as if more than a year 
or two had passed over her head since the 
Italian sun had bronzed her cheek. Ex- 


cept for this look as of added years, and a 
certain nndefinable completion of her 
beauty that comes only with the initiation 
into love and suffering, she seemed quite 
unchanged. The excitement of this meet- 
ing had brought a bright colour to Luli's 
cheek. The two girls were talking in a 
most friendly way, and regarding each 
other with an unmistakeable interest. 

" How do you do, Miss Brown ?" said 
Glencairn, with stiff courtesy, and withal a 
certain lurking interest that, although it 
might have been rather of repulsion than 
attraction, was irrepressible interest still. 

Zora was too good an actress to betray 
any agitation. With the ready sweetness 
of response just as of old, and just as of 
old, too, the shy modest drooping of the 
eyes — though perhaps they drooped now 


lower tliat the long lashes might veil their 
expression of shrinking and pain and fear, 
— she replied to Glencairn, though her 
calmness cost her a struggle, and her 
fingers loould tremble as they touched his. 
Luli, however, happily for Zora, had no 
mind that her father and her newly-met 
friend should have much to say to each 
other; she arranged that the quartette 
should pair off otherwise, the two men to- 
gether and the two girls. She wanted to 
have Zora all to herself ; for though 
Zora's appearance was that of a ghost of 
the past to her, the ghost of the beloved 
causes no fear. 

And Zora was not sorry to see Luli 
again ; though in her heart one bitter 
thought was tingling even as she smiled. 

" You have a right to wear black for him ! 

You have a right to mourn !" 


*' You are living in the country witli Mrs. 
Aldersley now, I hear ?" said Luli. 

" Yes, I have ended in that," replied 
Zora, pleasantly enough, but with an 
under-current of gloom in her tone. 

"Ended?" echoed Luli, looking on her 
companion's young and lovely face with a 
smile, that involuntarily faded in a sigh. 
*' She talks of ending who has yet her 
life to live !" thought Luli, who was in this 
case guilty of the prevalent error of judging 
by what she saw as exclusively as if nothing 
existed that she could not see. 

^' Yes, ended!" repeated Zora, "I see 
nothinof else before me. You know I have 
made various attempts in other ways of 
life, and have finally settled down in this. 
You heard of my trying the stage ?" 

"Yes, Kate told me." 


No allusion was made to the date of this 
experiment by either of them, for it had 
followed too closely upon that Autumn in 
Italy for them both not to be aware of the 
delicacy of the ground, and so skirt round 
it cautiously. 

"You did not like the stage, I sup- 
pose ?" continued Luli, conversationally. 

*^ I liked it well enough. I should have 
liked it better if I had ever had a part, or 
ever been likely to have a part. I suppose 
I was fortunate in getting the chance at 
all, and I got paid for it, which after all 
was the chief thing. I had nothing to do 
but walk on and off the stage in a Spanish 
costume, very unlike, I imagine, what any 
Spaniard ever wore ! I might have help- 
ed to fill up the back of the stage as one 
of a crowd of peasants or one of a crowd 


of masqueraders, up to this day if it had not 
been for my getting introduced to Mrs. 

" But you would not always have been 
at the back of the stage ? you would have 
got on to some good part ?" suggested 

Zora shook her head. 

" That is easier hoped for than done," 
she said. " There were girls there who 
had been going on at it for years and never 
got higher than a lady-in-waiting with 
nothing to say and nothing to do but to 
hand the Princess's or Countess's fan. And 
I unluckily have not got the voice for the 
stage. I found that out when I was there, 
although I had only one exclamation to 
make. I thank Mrs. Aldersley for read- 
ing me the lesson she did. She took a 


fancy to me, and talked to me one day. It 
was rather an unpalatable lesson, but it 
was a true and a useful one. She is very 
good to me, and she is a woman to love 
^nd admire. She is blind, you know, and 
hers is a sad story — a life of brilliant pro- 
mise blighted by one illness that ended in 
this affliction. So now, being with her, 
my life is of some use, you see, — not much, 
but still a little." 

" Of a great deal, I am sure," said Luli, 
sympathetically. " You must be an in- 
valuable help and comfort to her. You 
live in the country, do you not? are you 
up in town alone to-day ?" 

" Oh no. Mrs. Alder sley is in London 
for a few weeks, and as she is staying with 
friends, I am not so much required about 
Jier. I am with her, of course ; but I am 


not necessary to lier now that she is in a 
house full of intimate friends, so I have 
plenty of time to go about ; she says she 
likes me to have a holiday. It is such a 
pity that Kate is at Hastings now ; my 
opportunities of seeing her are so rare that 
I am sorry to lose this one." 

" Is Kate at Hastings, then ?" 

" Yes. I hope she may be back before 
we leave town again," replied Zora. 

Luli was silent a moment, and turned 
over a page of the catalogue abstractedly. 
Then she said thoughtfully, turning her 
large earnest eyes on Zora with a half-in- 
quiring, half-pleading look, 

" I wish you would come and see me. 
We are in a quiet little country place, 
you know, at present; and I daresay you 
have enough of the country now that yoa 


live there. But we are not far from town, 
and I wish, as you have plenty of leisure 
now, that you would come and pay me a 

"I should be delighted," said Zora, at 
first mechanically repeating from mere force 
of habit the form of speech with which she 
would have replied to any other such invi- 
tation from any other person, and smiling 
the stereotyped smile. Then she paused, 
and an earnest thoughtful look chased the 
soft society-smile from her face ; she cast 
one half -inquiring, sad, scrutinising glance 
at Luli, and her eyes sank from before 
Lulf s clear, gentle, unsuspicious gaze. 

"I should like to come and see you at 
jour home," Zora said slowly and half- 
liesitatingly, but still sincerely. 

For although the sight of Luli was a 


sharp pain to her, yet in the very stinging 
of the wound there was a keenness more 
endurable than the long dull ache of ever- 
lasting suppression and isolation of soul. 
Storm and tumult by their very nature in- 
spire and excite, even though the thrill they 
cause is pain. The spirit sinks drowned 
and stifled in the black, dense, bitter waters 
of some unstirred eternal memory, where 
in the tempest of winds and waves, of 
clashing fragments of the shipwrecked past, 
and conflicting currents of passion, it 
arises strong to dare and to endure. 

As curious as it is irresistible and uni- 
versal, in all created things of however 
opposite natures, is the longing to flee 
away into solitude from suffering, as if by 
so fleeing the sorrow might be escaped ! 
When Zora got home, to her temporary 


home, tliat day, she fled to her room and 
shut her door as though she could bar out 
the haunting thoughts that tracked her up 
the stair. 

" Oh ! if I should shriek it all out in 
my dreams some night !" she thought, with 
passionate trembling and horror. ^'In my 
dreams! Was it not all a dream? all a 
hideous nightmare ? all that terrible time ? 
Yet, if it were all a dream, where is lie ? 
He would be by her side, and she would 
not be in mourning and alone !" 

Then she flung up her hands to hide her 
face, although no eye was near to see, and 
the heavy tears welled through her strain- 
ingly-clasped fingers as she cried, 

" Duke ! Duke ! How was it I could 
bear the touch of the hand that dared to 
take mine to-day ! as if there was no blood 
upon it !" 



" No later light has lightened up my heaven, 
No second morn has ever shone for me, 
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, 
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee !" 

Emily Bronte. 

rpHAT evening after dinner, while Glen- 
cairn stood on the threshold of the 
long French window opening on the veran- 
dah, leisurely picking a cigar out of a full 
case, preparatory to a walk and a smoke in 
the garden, and Luli, tired with her day's 
excursion, leant back in a low easy-chair, 
Martin Griffiths, who had returned with 
them to dinner, sat opposite to her, with 
his long legs stretched across the hearth- 

A'-OL. III. K 


rug, apparently deeply engaged in contem- 
plating a small speck of mud on his boots, 
really enjoying the consciousness that Luli 
was so near to him, and that every time he 
raised his eyes they must naturally fix upon 
her face, and in the lazy lounging of his 
attitude tacitly postponing the moment 
when he must arise and join Glencairn in 
the garden. 

Luli was looking thoughtful as well as 
tired. They could neither of them, with 
all the keen insight of affection in their 
eyes, discern how under the surface she 
kept so calm and serene, one thought was 
ever and always working. The chords of 
one memory were never still. Like the 
Eolian harp in the lightest breath of air on 
the stillest day they throbbed and quivered. 
And this day they had been additionally 


stirred. Not only Zora's face had arisen 
before her like a ghost of the dear dead 
past, but the very place where the two girls 
had met was one calculated to arouse the 
same train of ideas in both. 

The thought that reflected its tragic 
shadow now in Lull's dreamy eyes, the 
thought unguessed and undreamt of by 
either of the two men who cared for her in 
regard to any physical fatigue so anxiously, 
was, " I shall never see his picture hanging 
on those walls ! That was our dream. 
Never, never now ! Ah, if it had been, I 
should have been far prouder than he !" 

She was drifting away into a dream of 
past possibilities evolving from that great 
"If," when Mr. Griffiths's voice broke up 
the dream by a well-intentioned, though 
far from original, inquiry as to her com- 



fort, whicli lie had repeated several times 
in various forms since lie liad wheeled tlie 
arm-chair forward for her. 

Luli smiled gratefully, and then presently 
going off into another train of thought, 
looked towards her father's tall, dark 
figure as he stood apparently mounting 
sentinel by the window, and observed 
rather hesitatingly — 

" Papa, dear." 


" Was it not odd, our meeting Zora 
Brown to-day ?" 

" Was it ? Perhaps it was." 

'' I enjoyed a nice talk with her. I think 
she is so charming. Might I not ask her 
to come and spend a day or two with me ?" 

Glencairn was silent a moment or two, 
striking a match and shading it with his 


fingers, and watcliing it flicker and sputter 
into flame. 

" What do you want the girl here for ?" 
he then said, as brusquely as he ever was 
known to speak to Luli; and as she did 
not instantly reply, he flung down the 
carefully-lighted match, turned away with- 
out looking at her, and went across the 
verandah into the garden. 

Martin Griffiths saw a shade of disap- 
pointment and distress cloud over Luli's 
face — a look of perplexed wonder, too, 
for it was rarely any wish of hers was 

" You look disappointed," he said, after 
a minute's silence, during which she was 
unconscious of the attentive way in which 
he had been regarding her. *' I don't like 
to see you look disappointed about any- 


thing. Are you dull in this quiet place ? 
Do you want some young friends around ?'' 

Luli looked up and smiled gratefully, 
appreciative of the kindness of her father s 
good old friend. 

'* I am not dull," she said ; *' but I should 
have been pleased to have had Zora here. 
I like Zora. But it does not matter." She 
could not repress a little sigh, however. 

Slow-witted Martin Griffiths did not at all 
suspect that there was any especial reason 
for her liking Zora; and his heart was 
quite melted by the repressed sigh. 

''Would not her young lady friend's 
society be good for Luli?" he ventured to 
say, presently, as he and Glencairn walked 
up and down the garden together. 

'' Good for her !'' echoed Glencairn, 
with a short laugh. ''Why? Do you 


think she's bored by us two old fogies ?" 

"ISTo," said Griffiths, his honest face 
falling a little under this classification; 
"but I suppose it's natural girls should 
like a little girl- companion ship." 

Glencairn frowned, and looked irresolute 
for a moment, the impulses of confidence 
and reserve warring in his mind ; then the 
influence that led him often to choose the 
most hazardous course, partly for the sake 
of experiment, swayed down the balance in 
favour of a certain measure of confidence. 

'^ This girl was with Luli at the time 
when — that man whom she was engaged 
to — died," he said, abruptly, but with two 
pauses in the sentence, not as if he hesitated 
at a stumbling-block, but as if he gathered 
his forces to charge it. 

"And it recalls him to her mind — 


naturally," said Griffitlis, looking down 
along the patli very gravely. 

Any further question of his on the sub- 
ject would probably have aroused Glen- 
cairn's never very placid temper ; for there 
was a half savage impatience in the move- 
ment with which he struck the ash off his 
cigar and tossed it away. But Griffiths 
made no inquiry. He only said, after a 
short silence — 

" If the child has a strong wish," — half 
as if speaking to himself, his voice quite 
unconsciously and involuntarily taking a 
tone as if it were he who had a sacrifice 
asked of him and was willing to make it. 

Glencairn glanced at him under his 
brows, and laughed again his short, hard, 
not very pleasant laugh. 

*'A woman will have her way, I sup- 


pose," he said. " And if it is to be, she 
may as well have her will first as last." 

They said nothing more about it in the 
garden ; but Glencairn was more than 
usually silent during their smoke and 
stroll ; and when they re-entered the draw- 
ing-room, he said to Luli — 

" Well, child, you want this girl — Zora 
—here ?" 

*' I should like to have her, papa, if you 
do not dislike her ? — and if you would not 
mind ?" 

''Dislike her? Why should I dislike 
her, child? She's a nice girl enough, I 

'' It would be so nice for me to have her 
here," said Luli, with a pretty, timid, coax- 
ing accent. "She is so soft and gentle, 
and so kind, and so pretty !" 


** Potent reasons! Well, ask her to 


He did not see, on reflection, any reason 
for withdrawing his consent. A train of 
gunpowder is safer under close watch and 
ward than if it is left unguarded and 
neglected, and the sentinel's eye is far off. 

So Luli had her wish. She wrote to 
invite Zora Brown to spend a few days 
with her ; and Zora accepted the invitation. 

She might hate and fear Glencairn, but 
she neither feared nor hated Luli — indeed, 
she regarded her now with only kind and 
tender and pitying and self-reproachful 
feelings ; and as the moth with scorching 
wings hovers still around the flame, so Zora 
was drawn by an irresistible impulse to 
renew the association that meant only pain. 
The flame of memory burnt her, till her 


spirit writhed beneath the fiery smart ; but 
still she hovered close to the flame, flung 
herself at last into the deepest consuming 
fire of the past, in flinging herself rashly 
but resolutely into daily intimate com- 
munion with Luli once more. 

" You are sure you will not want me ? — 
you can spare me well ?" she said affection- 
ately to Mrs. Alder sley, as she sat at her 
feet on a low footstool, with her letter- 
accepting Luli's invitation in her hand. 
" I will not send my letter to the post, 
unless you are quite certain." 

" I am quite certain, my dear," replied 
the blind lady. A noble and majestic- 
looking woman she was, in the Autumn of 
a beauty that must have been glorious in. 
its prime, and was faded more by suffering 
than age. She was very fond of Zora, who 


surrounded her with almost filially-devoted 
•care and attention ; and over Zora she held 
the influence of a stronger and grander 
nature over one soft, weak, loving, and 
prone to admire and look up. " I have 
not heard you mention this young lady. 
Miss Glencairn, before," Mrs. Aldersley 
continued. " Who is she ?" 

This simple question seemed unaccount- 
ably difficult to Zora to answer. The only 
reply that rose from her heart was " She 
is the girl who loved and was engaged to 
Mm !" and that reply must not be uttered. 
She ended in replying vaguely, 

" She is a friend of Kate Craven's." 
" She looks in bad health, you tell me ? 
Is she an orphan ?" 

''Yes — no. She has no mother." 

" And you are very anxious to go and 


spend a few days with her?" said Mrs- 
Aldersley gently. 

*'Not if you could not spare me well." 

'* I can spare you. But you are anxious 
to go. Has this young lady a brother?" 

" No, she is an only child." 

" Then what is the attraction, Zora ? I& 
it her father?" asked Mrs. Aldersley, who 
was plain-spoken, but with whose calm, 
grave inquiry, far removed from vulgar 
gossip and springing from genuine inter- 
est, no offence could be taken, and which 
generally by its own simple, outspoken 
sincerity drew a response as simple and 

" No, indeed. Miss Glencairn is the only 
attraction to me," replied Zora, sweetly^ 
*' the only attraction anybody would be 
likely to find there, I should think. Yoa 


would not wonder at it if you knew lier ; 
slie is so sweet and gentle and charming." 

*^ And I liave never heard you mention 
lier name before," said the blind lady, 
quietly. " She is a friend of the Miss 
Craven with whom you travelled in Italy ?" 


" Was she in Italy too at that time?" 


" You have seen much of her since 
then ?" 


Mrs. Alder sley's eyes could not see the 
nervous shrinking look come over Zora's 
face. But she knew as well as if she had 
her sisfht that Zora had bent her head down 
low with an instinctive movement as if to 
conceal her face from the eyes that could 
not see it. Mrs. Aldersley laid her hand 


upon Zora's soft curls steadily and silently, 
with a kind of mesmeric toucli that seemed 
to serve her the purpose of sight. 

" You never talk of Italy," she said after 
a few moments, ^'and you have never 
mentioned Miss Glencairn. Her name is 
written in that secret corner of your heart 
which you have never unveiled to me. 
And," she added slowly, as she felt a 
scarcely perceptible tremor stir the girl's 
frame, ''her name is not written there 
alone. I have guessed right, Zora, so far. 
Do not tell me so. I know it " 

" Dear, dearest friend, guess no more !" 
said Zora, impulsively, earnestly, entreat- 
in gly, lifting up her bowed head. "Whether 
you guess right or wrong, I beseech you, 
think on this subject no more! Promise 
me," she continued tremulously, almost 


passionately, clinging to her friend as if in 
prayer, " never to think of it again ! I do 
not beg you not to ash me — but I beg you 
not to think ; for your thoughts will read 
mine ! You have always been so good to 
me ; be best of all now ! and let that sub- 
ject sleep." 

Zora trembled in her entreaty, for she 
dreaded the piercing intuitive keenness of 
Mrs. Aldersley's perception, more than the 
scrutiny of any seeing eyes. She knew 
that whereas she could act, in look and in 
speech, so as to blind and mislead those even 
who gazed upon her face most watchfully, 
she could not blind those spiritual eyes that 
seemed to look into her heart. Because 
she felt she could not defend herself 
against any shaft that might strike upon 
her secret, she turned and threw herself 


upon the mercy and tlie honour of her 
whose aim she feared, and so disarmed her. 
Zora knew well before what natures it is 
safe to drop your weapons, and secure 
yourself by flinging away your shield. 

*' Zora, Zora, so it is as serious as this ?" 
said Mrs. Aldersley tenderly. "I fancied 
something of this from the moment you 
mentioned her name ; but I will fancy no 
more. I will not ponder over it nor try 
to fathom your secret unless you confide in 
me of your own free-will. Trust me, 
dear child, I will never seek to know this 
story you conceal from me — never, till 
you give me leave !" 

'' That will never be," said Zora, " until 
— ^unless " — she paused as a new thought 
crossed her mind, that Death only, and 
not the death of one alone, could ever re- 



move the seal from her lips. Then she 
added bravely, " But I know now that I 
am safe with you ; for you will keep your 



" Like, but unlike, the sun that shone. 
The waves that kissed the shore ; 
The words we said ; the songs we sung ; 
Like, — unlike ! evermore !" 

" For ghosts unseen crept in between, 
And when our songs flowed free, 
Sang discords in an undertone 
That marred our harmony." 

" ' The past is ours, not yours,' they said ; 
The waves that kiss the shore 
Though like the same are not the same 
O never, never more !" 

f\^ the first morning of Zora's visit 
to Luli, as fhe two girls are sitting 
in a cosy nook of the shrubbery, — playing 
with a lapful of kittens, while the old cat 
purrs at their feet, half-flattered and half- 



anxious, stretching lier whiskered tabby 
head up to assure herself of the well-being 
of her offspring, — Glencairn looks at them, 
and thinks (as Zora has thought), " Can the 
past have been all a dream ?" But with the 
sense of reality of the past, there comes 
to him the sense of assurance that the pre- 
sent is safe. 

There is no suggestion of lurking 
danger in the picture that presents itself 
to his eyes. A background of slim frail 
fir-trees swaying across a blue sky; a 
green lawn ; tall laurel shrubs ; a so-called 
rustic bench, to imitate the branches of a 
tree, with arms and back and legs eccen- 
trically twisted and contorted as no 
natural branch ever grew yet. On this 
resting-place are two fair young girls, 
sitting half in the shade of the laurels, half 


in tlie sunlight that streams across the 
lawn. They are deep in discussion on the 
respective merits of the black and the 
black-and-white and the tabby kittens, who 
are blinking their lately opened eyes and 
tangling their unmanageable little un- 
sheathed claws in the lace of Lull's 
sleeves. The old tabby mother rubs her 
head against Zora's knee and arches her 
back, as if expressing confidence in the 
satisfactory position of her offspring, but 
at the same time putting in a plea for their 
speedy restoration to her maternal paws. 

Zora is fresh and fair as morning in her 
simple, but becoming dress of pale cambric, 
with a black velvet ribbon round her neck. 
Her soft dark hair is pushed behind her 
ears and prisoned back by a tortoise-shell 
comb, but two or three loose curls stray 


over her shoulder. Her fair and spotless 
complexion warms into a pale and delicate 
pink, like the heart of a white rose, and 
her pretty little white teeth gleam as she 
smiles and shows the dimple that perfects 
her cheek. That dimpled cheek is so 
smooth and fair and round, that with her 
curling hair and parted lips it gives her 
something of a childlike aspect still, even 
now that the dawn of early youth has past. 
She does not look like one who has suffered 
much, unless you search the depths of her 
eyes. Yet she has suffered sharper and 
bitterer, because more complex, pain than 
Luli ever has. But her more elastic 
nature, although it never wholly throws off 
the burden, and ' bows crushed to the 
earth at times, yet never loses its wonder- 
ful power of rising and rallying. 


Luli too this morning looks well and 
bright ;. and as Glencairn stands talking to 
his friend Griffiths in the verandah, and 
yet keeping an attentive regard on the two 
girls, he hears Zora laugh gaily, and Luli's 
soft laugh join in chorus. 

It is sweet to hear ; but still it recalls 
with sudden and startling vividness the 
same united laughter under the olive trees 
on the terrace in those unforgotten days 
of Italy. 

Glencairn's stern brow contracts with a 
curious scrutiny as he looks at Zora ; and 
his lip curls in a kind of scornful bitter- 
ness which puzzles Martin Griffiths. 

" So runs the world away !" observes 
Glencairn, as if speaking to himself. 

Griffiths is not any the less puzzled on 
account of this remark ; he does not see any 


especial appropriateness in thafc convenient 
quotation which is so universally appo- 
site to anything, from a fancy dress-ball to 
a funeral. 

They stroll across the lawn to join the 
two girls, and Glencairn's hard smile soft- 
ens as he meets Lull's upward look at him. 

" Well, child of mine, and how many of 
these kittens are you going to commit to 
the deep ?" 

" Oh, none of them ; they are such 
pretty little darlings !" says soft-hearted 

" It does seem cruel, doesn't it ?" agrees 
amiable Zora. 

" I don't believe you would set foot upon 
a worm," observes Griffiths, addressing 
Luli with more affection than originality. 

" She would not have made a good Pro- 

GLEy CAIRN. 153 

yidence, would she ? She would temper 
the wind to the unshorn sheep !" remarks 

Lull and Zora, now for the first time 
(since the days of that sad journey when 
they were in too sore sorrow to be com- 
panionable) thrown together upon each 
others sole companionship, liked each 
other, and were drawn together by a deep, 
longing, unuttered sympathy. Before one 
day of this new intimacy had past, they 
were each beginning to realise that the 
other was not the same as in those past 
Antumn days — that it was a new Luli 
and a new Zora, who had to make ac- 
quaintance with each other now. 

In Luli, whose love had been simple, 
open, pure, and free, whose sorrow was as 
simple and natural and pure, the change 


was evident and simple too, a natural 
change from hope to memory, from glad- 
ness to a mourning that, though unselfish- 
* ly silent and serene, was mourning ever. 

In Zora, who seemed less altered, a 
change as great had worked itself. 

Whoever has once stood face to face 
with a tragic Destiny can never be quite 
the same again. Whoever once is forced 
into contact with the terrible realities of 
Life and Death, has crossed a Eubicon. 

So Zora is altered now. Her tranquil 
sweetness of temper, her bright equability 
of spirit, is a a little shaken. She is gentle 
and amiable always, but sometimes un- 
nerved and overstrung by the daily and 
nightly gnawing of the wolf at her heart, 
which she, not so much through Spartan 
courage as through a shrinking terror and 


horror of the biting secret, may never un- 
cover, under whose fangs she must never 
cry out. Still she is a better woman now 
than before the stern reality of agony had 
seized upon her soul ; and in her weakness 
and her secrecy she is yet stronger and 
truer than she ever was before; for love 
and remorse and sorrow have struck to the 
deepest depths of her nature ; and although 
she is not, and never will be, heroic, she has 
learnt to scorn her own weakness, and in her 
endurance now there is an element of aspira- 
tion hitherto unknown to that soft, easy, 
impulsive nature which superficially was sa 
self -abnegating, and in its depths unstirred 
by any but self -considerations — once. 

Now she has left that old soft pleasure- 
seeking self behind ; purged away like 
dross in the furnace whose cruel fires have 


found lier purer gold than tliose wlio knew 
her thoroughly in her earliest days could 
have hoped. 

After twenty-four hours together, Luli 
and Zora know the change in each other, 
and feel as if this new intimacy had al- 
ready endured for years. The secret occult 
sympathy uniting them draws them closer 
hour by hour. Equally soon Glencairn 
perceives two things, that Zora's presence 
has, as he had anticipated, an influence 
over Luli, and that it is not the depressing 

influence which he had feared. He thinks 
that Luli seems the better and the stronger 
for Zora's company ; the danger seems no 
nearer now that Zora is so near ; the past is 
safely sealed ; she will never dare to break 
that solemn seal of an oath set on the deed 
that is done and buried. Since this is so, 


and her presence seems a gratification to 
Luli, let her stay ! A week — a fortnight 
— will scarcely be more dangerous than a 

One evening he and Griffiths go out for 
a walk, leaving the two girls alone. They 
do not make it a long walk, for they have 
plenty of exercise in the day, and they find 
each other's company a shade less magnetic 
than the society which is waiting in the 
pretty drawing-room of the Chalet. They 
saunter slowly back before the darkness of 
night has fairly closed. 

It is a calm night of early Summer ; a 
night for memories and dreams. The trees 
are still, as if they were listening to the 
song that is in the silence ; the shadows of 
the branches on the ground have no stir ; 
the sky is clear, divine, and deep, cloudless, 


moonless ; the one pure star of evening is 
its brightest light. Over all the earth 
there seems to lie a great hush and calm, 
unbroken save by one faint, sharp chirp 
from a startled bird. The influence of 
such a Summer night is that which makes 
young hearts, which can conceive the 
•deepest joy, and have not known the 
bitterest woe, swell with a rapture of un- 
realized hopes, and older hearts, which 
have realized and seen reality decay, sigh 
with a passion for a lost ideal. It is a 
night which makes the present a dream, 
the past a reality, the future a mirage close 
at hand. 

Glencairn and Griffiths pace along silent- 
ly under the starlit sky. On such a night 
it is a common-place or a coarse nature that 
lightly breaks with words of common-place 


nothings the stillness that seems heaven- 
born. As they come among the houses 
and draw nearer to the Chalet, the spell of 
that divine silence fades away. They hear 
the harsh scream of one neighbour's pea- 
cock; the rattle of the light wheels of 
another's chaise ; from the garden-ground 
of another of the " resident gentry " comes 
the click of the croquet-ball and the 
mallet. Then the whistle of a train ; and 
then, as they arrive close to the Chalet, a 
sweeter sound comes to them on the wings 
of the faintly-breathing breeze that barely 
stirs, and then sinks into sleep again. A 
girl's voice is singing, Z era's voice, as 
Glencairn recognises ; then it ceases ; a 
few wandering chords are struck on the 
piano ; a different melody is woven in, and 
Luli's voice uprises clear and low and 


sweet, but distinct enough for every note 
to reacli their ear, as they are by this time 
at the garden-gate. 

Glencairn stands still and listens with 
his hand on the latch. What is it that she 
is singing ? It is the melody he remembers 
well; it is what Zora's mother used to 
sing, in the days when first she led him 
captive, before he learned to know her as 
she was, while still the glamour was 
blinding his eyes, more than a score of 
years ago. It is the melody that in Zora's 
voice first woke the echoes of the past and 
set them ringing through his mind, in the 
gardens by the Lake of Como. 

Zora must have taught it to Luli ; once 
or twice he has heard his daughter, in her 
utter unconsciousness of the associations 
it bore to him, casually strike a note or 


two, or sing by snatches a few bars of it. 
But she habitually only sings to him certain 
favourite songs of his ; he has never heard 
her sing that song before as she is singing 
it now. 

He hears the old words, the old tune, 
repeated in her pure soft voice ; they fall 
distinctly on his ear in the evening 

Is there anything in this world that stirs 
old memories so strongly as the odour of 
some certain flower ? One breath of Cape 
jasmine will photograph on the air a 
twenty-years' -past scene, will bring before 
the mind's eye the living smile of the face 
the coffin-lid hid away half a century ago. 
But second only to this power of certain 
fragrances, there is no force like music for 
breaking open the sealed doors of haunted 

VOL. ni. M 


chambers in the past. All the spectres he 
has locked away from his present life seem 
to be let loose upon Glencairn as the old 
tune rings in his ears, sung in a voice how 
different ! This makes it all the more 
ghostly. " So like the same, yet not the 
same." But he will not let the memories 
master him. He will be lord of them ; and 
quietly and steadily he lifts the latch of 
the gate and walks down the path to the 
verandah. Griffiths follows him, treading 
softly so as not to disturb the singer. 

Zora can sing that song exquisitely, and 
the compass of her voice perhaps suits it a 
trifle more perfectly than Luli's. But Luli 
sings it now as Zora has never sung it. To 
her too it is full of memory. As she sings 
it she is leaning back in a boat on the lake 
of Oomo, drifting slowly past the twilight 


beauty of the shores, gazing dreamily at 
the red sunset, listening to the low plash 
of the oar ; — and he is by her side ! All 
the love, all the longing, all the faith and 
passion of her soul, burst forth in the out- 
pouring of the song that was sung that 
night. The immortality of the past it is 
that fills her voice with that strange thrill 
as if the very heart of love beat in her 

" What day shall all the dead arise 
Those moonlit waves closed o'er ? 

When shall my dead who with them lies 
Come live and love once more ? 

What hour shall to these exiled eyes 
Their lost — their home restore ?" 

As she finishes the last line, a shadow 
falls across the window, and the two men 
stand on the threshold. Zora is sitting in 
a low chair by the piano, drooping back in 
the shade of the corner, with her head bent 



down. They cannot see her face. Luli 
looks round as she becomes conscious of 
their presence, and the .lamplight shines 
full upon her face in its pale spiritual 

"A face in nowise proud or grand 
But strange and sad and fair." 

"You sing that well, Luli," observes 
Glencairn quietly. 

"Thank you, Miss Glencairn, thank 
you," says Griffiths earnestly. 

" Do you like it ?" responds Luli, looking 
up at them. " It is Zora's song ; but she 
will not sing it to-night." 

"Will she not?" asks Glencairn, politely 
enough as to tone, casting a glance at the 
drooping figure and downcast face in the 

"It suits your voice beautifully," says 


" I am in a singing mood to-night," re- 
sponds Luli, her fingers straying over the 
keys as she still turns her face upward to- 
wards the listeners in the lamplight. 

There is something new and thrilling 
and strange in her loveliness to-night that 
strikes them both. A sort of flush and 
light of daring and exaltation illuminates 
her face. She has the look of one who is 
triumphing in a new strength, able to pass . 
an ordeal under which she had deemed she 
must break down, strong not through want, 
but through excess, of feeling, not through 
insensibility of nerve, but through the in- 
tensity of the soul's yearning which seems 
full of force enough to break through the 
barriers between world and world. 

" Yes, I can sing the last verse again if 
you like," she says with the same kind of 


thrill and daring in her voice. And she 
does sing it again, with the same abandon- 
ment of passion and rapture of aspiration 
and longing in her eyes and tone. Only 
on the last syllable the pure impassioned 
voice quivers ; a sudden mist blinds the 
upward gazing eyes, and the long lashes 
sweep down over them and veil the 
brimming tears. It is well that it is the 
last syllable, for she has strained her 
strength to its limits, and knows she can 
sing no more. She retains her superficial 
tranquillity, however, and the tears that 
have risen do not fall, and the silent lips 
do not tremble perceptibly. 

But the last words of the song have 
somehow struck a strange cold fear home 
to Glencairn's heart. 


" What hour shall to these exiled eyes 
Their lost — ^their home restore ?" 

What if the hour should be near ? 

She is so fragile in all her youth and 
beauty ! What if the hour of that re- 
union be not far off ? No, no ; it cannot 
be ! He thrusts the idea from him vio- 
lently, fiercely. Folly to be moved with 
forebodings at a foolish verse! She is 
well, and stronger than she has been for 

He has steered the bark safely over 
shoals and rocks and past the breakers. 
They are nearly in the harbour now ! 



** Sister, my sister, O soft light swallow ! 
Though all things feast in the Spring's guest-chamber, 

How hast thou heart to be glad thereof yet ? 
For where thou fliest I shall not follow, 
Till life forget and death remember, 
Till thou remember and I forget !" 
*' O sweet stray sister, O shifting swallow. 
The heart's division divideth us ! 

Thy heart is light as a leaf of a tree, 
But mine goes forth among sea-gulfs hollow. 
To the place of the slaying of Itylus, 

The feast of Daulis, the Thracian sea." 


f70RA has only been staying with 

Luli Glencairn for two or three days 

when Kate Craven, who has returned from 

Hastings sooner than she was expected, 


makes her appearance at the Chalet for a 
flying visit of a few hours. She is bright 
and gay and demonstrative as ever. What- 
ever the passing seasons may have given 
to or taken from her, they have shadowed 
her blue eyes with no deeper expression, 
stolen not one of the roses from her cheek. 

"It is a shame, Luli, for you to seize 
upon Zora, and get her here all to your- 
self, while I was out of the way," she 
observes, with a feint of being aggrieved. 
^'It is 'real mean,' as the Yankees would 
say. I have half a mind to take possession 
of her now and carry her back with me." 

" Please don't," responds Luli, smiling, 
but earnestly too; " I can't spare her just 
yet. You won't run away so soon, Zora, 
will you ?" 

" Well, I won't grudge her to you, as 


you're moped up all alone down here,'^ 
says Kate, magnanimously and frankly. 
" / have lots of society and fun, and more 
parties than I can go to. So you may 
have Zora for a little while." 

" Mr. Griffiths " is here announced, and 
makes his appearance in the drawing- 
room, tall, broad, big, light-haired, and 
grizzly bearded, and clad in a rough, 
light-coloured coat, that gives him some- 
thing the appearance of a large, light New- 
foundland dog. He is introduced to Miss 
Craven, greets Miss Brown, and takes 
Luli's hand very much as if it were a white 
rose. Then, being probably dazzled and 
embarrassed by this radiant trio of girl- 
hood, he looks round, as if to find some 
support in Glencairn, and finds him not. 

** Where's your father ?" he inquires. 


" He may be anywhere within a hundred 
miles," repHes Luli, with a placid smile^ 
" He is off on one of his wanderings. 
When we came down to breakfast this 
morning, we found no sign of him but a 
half cup of cold coffee and a crust of bread. 
By which I knew that he had betaken him-^ 
self — heaven knows where — on one of his 
mysterious rambles." 

"When do you expect him back?" 

" Haven't you known papa long enough 
to have discovered the utter futility of 
expecting him at any given time or place ?" 

" He was always somewhat erratic," 
admitted Martin Griffiths, with a smile of 
amused reminiscence. 

"And does he really play these little 
games often ?" inquired Kate. 

" They are rather a favourite amuse- 


ment of his," replied Luli. *' I am accus- 
tomed to them, but I think they astonish 
the domestics. A few weeks ago," she 
added, with a smile brightening up her 
iace like sunshine, " he went for a consti- 
tutional walk before daylight. The hall- 
door was heard to shut at that unearthly 
hour, and the rest of the household assem- 
bled in my room in alarm, and in amusing 
deshabille. They thought it was a burglar 
getting in, instead of the master going 

" Lunch is ready," announced one of the 
household at this moment. 

" You really are not going to wait lunch 
for your papa, then ?" remarked Kate. 

" I am afraid you would all run a chance 
of getting very hungry if I did ; and I 
-don't want my own appetite to become too 


wolfish," laughed Lull, whose meals would 
have been a moderately suflficient portion 
for a canary. 

"Well — I Perhaps, as your father's 

not at home " observed Martin Grif- 
fiths, vaguely looking about for his hat, 
with a transparent feint of being about to 
take his leave, that caused Kate Craven to 
turn her head abruptly away to conceal 
her laughter. 

"But of course you will stay," said Luli, 
opening her eyes. " Come, take Miss 
Craven in to lunch." 

"Mr. Griffiths is naturally alarmed at 
the idea of having to carve for three young 
ladies," observed Kate, endeavouring, by 
the preternatural solemnity of her lips, to 
counteract the mischievous merriment of 
her eyes. 


As lookers-on proverbially see more than 
players, Kate, in lier half day's visit, sees 
more of Griffiths' growing attachment than 
Luli herself. Nor is Kate alone in her 
perception. Zora has arrived at the same 
conclusion already. The very servants at 
the Chalet, the housemaid who waits at 
dinner, the cook whose scullery-window 
commands a view of the garden, opine confi- 
dently of Mr. Griffiths that " he's after our 
young lady," and wonder "when it will 
come off ?" 

Kate does not go so far as this latter 
speculation. She only observes to Zora in 
a private and confidential aside, 

" A case there, eh ? Hard hit, evidently 
— on one side." 

" On one side, yes," agrees Zora. 

" He's old, isn't he ?" continues Kate, 


with a meditative air of some distaste. 
^' Still, ' better to be an old man's darling/ 
you know. Not that it's a game 1 should 
ever care to play !" 

" I do not fancy Luli would care to play 
it either," replied Zora, adding thought- 
fully, " or rather, I don't think she sees 
that it's a part she is likely to have the 
chance of playing." 

" Luli was always as innocent as a babe 
unborn," says Kate, half scornfully, half 
affectionately. **But she'll have to see 
that soon, unless like a little goose she 
treats him too much in a paternal light and 
so scares him off. I don't suppose," adds 
Kate, through whose careless levity break 
gleams of sterling sense and womanly 
heart sometimes, " she'll ever be as fond of 
anybody as she was of poor Duke. I don't 


know that I should particularly like to see 
her caring for anybody else in that devoted 

" No," agrees Zora, in a subdued voice, 
trying not to let Kate see how she winces 
under the allusion. 

*' But still it would be a very good thing," 
Kate continues, "for her to settle down 
comfortably with some nice, good fellow. 
She is too affectionate and amiable not to 
have some love left to give, although it 
mayn't be the best love. And half a loaf 
is better than no bread, and recliauffees 
affections are better than none ; and though 
a young man wouldn't think so, an old man 
might !" 

" Mr. Griffiths is not so very old though, 
observes Zora. 

*' Just about the age that men get hard 


hit," says Kate, with an air of experience. 
*' Look there !" nodding towards the two 
unconscious subjects of their discussion 
who are standing on the verandah, the 
gentleman assiduously picking up the 
shawl which is dropping off the young 
lady's shoulders, while she turns her grace- 
ful little head with a sweet but half care- 
less expression of thanks. 

"It is nice for you to have your young 
friends with you, isn't it?" he observes. 
" It must be dull and lonely for you to be 
left so much to yourself when Glencairn is 

" It is lonely, but not dull. And if it 
were, he could not change his ways," she 
answers, gently. "It would trouble him 
if he thought I felt dull alone, but he could 
not be tied to this cottage, you know. 



And indeed I am never, never really lone- 
ly," slie adds, eagerly, fearful lest her words 
should seem to imply a complaint. "I am 
accustomed to be alone ; 1 like it ; I think 
I inherit the taste from him." 

" If you do, it is the only thing you re- 
semble him in. I never saw a father and 
daughter more unlike !" he says, sincerely. 

He has never seen Luli in those rare and 
always terrible moments when the shadow 
of her father's spirit darkens her face. 

" And yet you always seem so happy to- 
gether," he adds, half-questioningly, look- 
ing at her with a sort of yearning, as if 
looking into a paradise whose gate might 
by a bare possibility open to him if he 
dared to try ifc, but which he deemed too 
unattainable to dare. 

" We do not seem ; we are,^^ she answers, 


with a dreamy smile, but a look of pain and 
memory in her eyes that harmonizes ill 
with the word ''happy." 

**I do not know who could fail to be 
happy with you !" he observes. 

'' That's because you don't know me," 
she responds frankly and unsuspiciously ; 
" if I were your daughter, you would know 
how tiresome I can be !" 

'' Good gracious," whispers Kate to Zora, 
**the little goose is actually talking about 
being his daughter !" 

During the afternoon Kate is escorted 
out by the rest of the party on a tour of 
inspection of the premises. The Chalet 
cannot boast of extensive grounds, and a 
very few minutes suffice for the exhaustion 
of all objects of interest in the garden and 
the yard. There are the fowls, clucking and 



pecking at the corn Luli scatters for them 
as they flutter round her feet. One of them 
has laid an egg, and is evidently boasting 
of her achievement among her fellows with 
loud, exultant clackings. She barely con- 
sents to interrupt her noisy triumph to 
peck up a beakful of barley, and nearly 
chokes herself in her hurry to resume her 
boasting. Another is imprisoned in a 
wicker dungeon for her sins, which take the 
shape of a brood of little yellow chickens, 
like fluffy lumps of down, who cause their 
parent extreme anguish by straying near 
the kitchen door, where the cat sleeps in 
the sun. Then there is the pony to be 
exhibited, and the docility with which he 
eats a carrot from Lull's hand to be ad- 
mired ; and then a bone is to be taken to 
the dog, who is chained up in his kennel, 


and from whom Zora keeps a safe distance, 
while he goes through his performances of 
"begging," and *' giving the paw." 

After these domestic duties have been 
gone through, the girls, with Mr. GriiB&ths 
of course as attendant cavalier, resort to 
the hayfield near at hand, which although 
private property, is generously left open, 
and used alike as a short cut and a loung- 
ing place by the neighbourhood in general. 
The haymakers are at work, their bright 
scythes glisten in the sun, and the soft 
hissing sound with which they sweep the 
swathes of grass mingles with the grass- 
hopper's sharp treble chirrup. The men 
look warm and thirsty, and stop work very 
often to mop their brows with the bright- 
coloured bandanas fashionable among the 
class. Near the hedge lies a heap of coats 


and an empty beer-can, watched by a 
brindled mongrel, wbo is stretclied out, 
looking fast asleep in the sun, but opens 
one eye upon the intruders as they pass. 
A lark is soaring up out of sight *'in the 
infinite blue," and his joyous song floats 
down fainter and fainter to their ears ; but 
oddly enough nobody even attempts to 
quote Shelley. It is possible that Martin 
Griffiths, in his blinded and barbaric life of 
roving, remote from civilization and litera- 
ture, may never have heard of the " Ode." 
" How I wish it was always Summer 1" 
exclaims Kate, reclining comfortably on a 
heap of hay, with her hands clasped behind 
her head, and her hat pushed down over her 
face, so as to hide it as far as the tip of her 
nose. " On Summer days like this I think 
one lives exactly twice one's natural daily 
amount of life 1" 


" I do not like Summer," says Zora. pen- 
sively ; "it fills one with discontent." 

"Why?" inquires Griffiths surprised; 
" are not the sun and the sky and the green 
fields beautiful ?" 

" Too beautiful," she answers, looking 
down, and tossing the loose, long, half-dried 
grass about as she buries her hands in it. 

"I think there is nothing that makes 
one feel the incompleteness of life so much 
as the beauty of Summer," observes Luli. 
" It fills one with such a longing to be like 
that lark. Only," she adds, as the song 
sounds clearer and clearer, "he is coming 
down again !" 

" I have not the least desire to be Hke 
that lark/' asserts Kate decisively, from 
the depths of the crown of her hat. " I 
don't want to be anything but what 1 am." 


" That is no great wonder, Katie," says 
Lull, with an affectionate smile. "How 
fresh and good the new hay smells !" she 
adds, taking up a great armful of it, and 
bending her face over it, and letting it 
shower and straggle down upon her lap. 

" To think that I have to go back and 
dance in a stifling gas-lit ball-room all to- 
night !" says Kate, stretching her arms out 
lazily, and shaking her hat back into its 
place. '* Luli, I must be going soon ! and 
I haven't seen your Pater ! I wanted to 
see him especially. You know what a pet 
he is of mine ! What a shame of him to go 
off in this way !" 

" It's just his old way," observes Griffiths 
narratively. " I remember when we were 
prospecting in New Mexico, we and a 
handful of other fellows, how he walked 


out of the camp one night without a word 
to any of us, just took up his pistol and 
pulled his hat over his brows, and went off. 
We thought he would be back to supper, 
but he never came. We never heard of 
him for days till one evening I was riding 
home late, dead beat and tired and hungry, 
and I saw a curl of smoke, and gave a 
halloo — which was imprudent of me, I 
grant, as I was one man alone. Well, it 
was our missing man, and glad enough I 
was to fall in with him, especially as he'd 
got a very good supper of his own shoot- 
ing. So next day we went back to the 
camp together ; but where he had been or 
what took him away nobody ever learnt 
from that day to this." 

" He must be an exciting inmate for a 
quiet household," remarks Kate. '' And, 


especially as his return is so indefinite, / 
can't wait for it." 

Glencairn's wandering mood however is 
but of brief duration tbis time. Dinner 
has only been kept waiting about a quarter 
of an bour, partly on tbe cbance of bis 
return, partly because Miss Craven has 
been " seen off " at tbe station by tbe rest 
of tbe party, and tbe train being a few 
minutes late bas delayed tbem, wben Glen- 
cairn pusbes tbe gate open and comes down 
tbe gravel-walk. 

He is not at all surprised to find tbe one 
visitor, Martin Griffiths, there ; he is non- 
chalantly surprised and interested to hear 
of Kate's visit and of her regrets at depart- 
ing without seeing him. He is kissed and 
welcomed, — gladly, but without any of the 
effusive demonstration of relieved anxiety, 


— by Lull; and would evidently be as- 
tonished and displeased if it appeared that 
his absence had been considered at all 
strange. There is no fear of Zora's utter- 
ing any remarks or inquiries. She is always 
silent and constrained before Glencairn. 
Even Martin Griffiths notices that the rela- 
tions between these two, both as host and 
guest, and as a father and his daughter's 
favourite friend, are singularly distant ; on 
his side there is such rigid formality, on 
hers such perpetual restraint, and occa- 
sionally so strange an air of nervousness, 
even sometimes of repulsion and trepida- 

Lull thinks nothing of this ; she is ac- 
customed to hear people declare they stand 
in awe of her father and ask sotto voce if he 
is not "rather odd?" or " peculiar ?" and 
it rather amuses her than otherwise. 


They have a moderately lively dinner, 
though the ball of conversation does not 
roll too rapidly, and it occurs to most of 
them that it is a pity Kate is gone — bright 
Kate who knows no fear nor shyness of 
man, woman, or child, and who likes Glen- 
cairn and " chaffs " him as very few of his 
acquaintances or friends have ever ventur- 
ed to do. 

Martin Griffiths, who frequently is 
blundering enough to speak his mind, 
ventures further than most people when 
he observes in the course of the after- 
dinner tete-a-tete J 

"I was quite surprised, old fellow, to 
find you had gone off on one of your wan- 
derings when I came to-day. I fancied 
you had left your old habits behind with 
the old life in another hemisphere." 


" And / fancied I liad done surprising 
people," said Glencairn. " It's refreshing 
to find somebody who can still be surprised 
at me. You thought I had left my old 
ways behind me, did you, my dear boy? 
Did it ever strike you what a good world 
it would be if we could leave our old selves 
behind ?" he added, meditatively looking at 
the wine in his glass against the light. 

" It seems to me that I have left my old 
self, the boy I used to be before I first left 
England, a long, long way behind," said 

''But I never was such a self as you 
used to be," replied Glencairn, with his half 
sad, half bitter smile. " You were always 
the same soul and the same heart, Martin 
— one soul in your body through all your 
life. Now it seems to me sometimes that 


two souls possess my body in turn, 
two separate and distinct souls, yet each 
retaining memory of the other's deeds. 
Query — is one responsible for the other ? 
What should you say ?" 

" Yes," said Griffiths, simply and straight- 
forwardly as was his nature. " Your two 
souls are only your conflicting impulses. 
You were always a creature of moods." 

*' Of such moods as I used to walk 
down on the plains," interposed Glencairn; 
" such moods as I walked down to-day. 
Yes, I am a prey to them still — worse, 
worse than ever ! They are like a legion 
of devils trying to seize upon me. If I 
yielded — but I never yield. I trample 
them down. As it is, when they are on 
me, I feel scarcely responsible for myself. 
I go far away — alone — and wrestle with 


them. All I can do is to be alone, and to 
walk them down. Faces — voices — people 
— drive me mad!" 

'^ And does this often happen ?" asked 
Griffiths, with a look of grave sympathy 
and an unconscious glance towards the 
garden where the two girls walked. 

Glencairn answered the look as well as 
the words. 

" Not often. I never let the shadow of 
these moods fall upon the child if I can 
help it. You are thinking, Martin, that I 
am but a rough, grim guardian to be her 
only companion ?" he added, fixing his 
friend with his deep keen eyes. 

Martin Griffiths, too truthful to answer, 
''No," too honest to deny his thought, said 
only, looking with a sort of half envious, 
half pitying tenderness at the girlish figure 
crossing the walk in the twilight, 


*• She loves you." 

As tie walked liome that night GrijB&ths 
found himself earnestly reflecting upon 
Luli's life with that strange but devoted 
father of hers, and wondering whether he 
himself was a doting fool to let this girl's 
face haunt him by night and day, as a 
woman's face never — save once for a brief 
dream-time long years ago — had haunted 
him before. If this were an entirely hope- 
less infatuation, would it not be best, now 
that it seemed too strong to be conquered, 
to retreat before it ? to take a last look at 
that fair face and turn from it for ever — 
leave it far behind, never to be seen except 
in dreams again? Yes, if this were a 
hopeless infatuation, that would be the only 
course. But was it hopeless ? Dearly as 
she loved her father, her life, motherless 


and sisterless, could not be other than a 
lonely and to some extent a sad one. 
There might be place in it for new hopes 
and new interests, although it was evident 
that one fairest hope already had been 

He could never bid that one flower of 
youth and early romance bloom again, he 
knew. He judged Luli rightly enough, 
rather by instinct than by reason, to be 
assured that, whatever her past was, it was 
a past no future could efface or eclipse. 
He was not poetic nor imaginative ; he had 
always despised what he called sentiment ; 
and until now he had scarcely known how 
much unspoken romance lay latent in his 
heart. But had he devoted his life to 
psychology and to the weaving of human 

emotions and passions into metre and 
VOL. in. o 


melody, he could not have perceived more 
clearly that the deepest depths of this girl's 
nature had already been fathomed ; and 
that there was one stilled chord of her 
heart which would answer to no living 
touch. Still she was so young and gentle, 
she might learn to know a second love. It 
might be reserved for some man's blessing 
to be privileged to breathe an Indian 
Summer of second sunshine into her life. 
"Why should he not be that man ? What 
was he, grizzled and bronzed and battle- 
worn, that he should expect to gather to his 
own a fresh young heart with all the dew 
and bloom still on it ? Although the dew 
of a first early love had been shaken off it, 
he would be blest enough if he could win 
that heart now, true and pure as it must 
ever be. And he might win it surely. No 


man could ever love her better than he 
would do. And although no human tender- 
ness could surround her with more care- 
ful cherishing than did her father's, yet 
Glencairn was, as he had owned, but "a 
rough, grim guardian to be her only com- 
panion." And how often she was left 
solitary, companionless, alone ! 

Could he but gain her affections, Griffiths 
thought to himself, he would study her 
every taste and fancy, make her life not 
only safe and sheltered, but bright and 
sunny ; not content with only guarding her 
from care, he would give her all the pleas- 
ures that seemed suitable to her youth and 
beauty. But the time had not come yet 
to startle her by any advance, he knew. 
The path must be trodden slowly and 
gradually ; the goal approached by cautious 



degrees. Pacing up and down in tlie June 
moonlight, forgetful of the passing hours, 
he resolved that there must be hope for 
him, if he could only bide his time. 



" Alas, we two ! ' We two,' thou sayst ; 

Aye, one thou wast with me 
That once of old. Bat shall God lift 

To endless unity 
The soul whose likeness with thy soul 

Was but its love for thee?" 


rpHE birds are twittering from tlie fir- 
-■- trees; the thrush's trill mingles 
with the distant whistle of the engine as 
the morning train whirls on its way. Be- 
tween these sharper, shriller sounds the 
wind bears the low rumble of the hay- 
carts as they roll heavily to and from the 
field. There is a fresh sweet smell of hay 
everywhere, for everywhere the grass has 


been cut and flung in pleasant-scented 
heaps, from tlie broad meadows of fclie lord 
of the manor to the little lawn of the 

The windows leading into the green ver- 
andah are flung open ; the dew is glittering 
still like a shower of diamonds on the white 
blossoms of the syringa that climbs round 
the window-frame; the early sun glints 
into the room and on to the snowy-clothed 
table where breakfast is laid, and where 
the servant is laying down the letters the 
postman has just brought. 

A fragrant steam curls up from the sil- 
ver spout of the tall coffee-pot ; the covered 
dishes look temptingly suggestive ; and the 
crisp hot toast is beautifully brown ; (woe 
would betide the cook should it be burnt I 
and equally would the master's wrath de- 


scend upon lier head should it look sickly 
and pale). 

The master is the first in the field, the 
only member of the little company present 
at the roll-call as yet. He is not regarding 
the door or the clock impatiently, nor the 
covered table sanguinely ; but eyeing with 
suspicious eye the large thick letter which 
the servant has laid by Lull's plate. He 
knows it is not anything very alarming; 
but still to him its appearance is decidedly 
unwelcome. It is about the size of a pho- 
tograph, the shape of a photograph. It is 
directed to Luli in the handwriting of 
Duke Mayburne's mother, an old invalid 
lady who never comes to London, and 
whom Luli never sees now (he takes care 
of that), but with whom she still keeps 
up an occasional correspondence. He re- 


collects now that in the old lady's last 
letter some time ago there had been some 
allusion to having more copies struck off 
of the only good photograph existing of 
her poor boy. This then no doubt is the 

He has only time to come to this con- 
clusion, to turn it over and frown at its 
inopportune arrival, when feminine dresses 
rustle across the passage, and Luli and 
Zora come into the room. He has put 
down the letter in its place, and taken up 
the Times as they enter. 

Zora smiles her usual timid good morn- 
ing ; her anxious distant courtesy to Glen- 
cairn has always something fearful and 
propitiating about it, as his manner to her 
is stonily "ceremonious and stiffly polite. 

''How are you, child?" he inquires of 


Luli, with his usual matutinal look of keen 
and anxious inquiry, to ascertain if it is to 
be one of her *' well days" or " ill days." 

"Perfectly well to-day, dear," she an- 
swers with a reassuring grateful smile, 
and lifts her fair face to his grizzled mous- 
tache for a good-morning kiss. 

As she turns to the breakfast table she 
glances down at the letter that lies await- 
ing her, and on the instant her pale cheek 
blanches whiter still. For just one mo- 
ment her sensitive lips quiver and her 
breath comes short. Then she is mistress 
of herself again. Quite composedly she 
takes her seat, and quietly, but not secret- 
ly, slips the packet into her lap, knowing 
well that no one will question her as to 
why she does not open it, but unable to 
endure to see it lying there. She smiles 


calmly, if with absent eyes, to her father 
and to Zora, and begins to pour out the 
coffee with careful steadiness. 

The morning newspaper is unfolded, 
and Glencairn reads scraps aloud, and Luli 
dutifully expresses interest in the divers 
facts he announces, comments on the 
Absconding of a Fraudulent Banker, and 
listens with an appearance of attention 
to something — she really knows not what — 
about Pennsylvanian railways. 

She stirs her coffee and breaks up a 
piece of toast in her plate, but touches 
nothing herself, although she pours milk 
into the saucer and sets it down for the 
cat ; and flings crumbs on to the verandah 
for the sparrows, who however keep warily 
far off, well knowing that Puss, their enemy, 
sits curled up, with her tail round her toes, 


in the shadow of the window curtain. 

But after breakfast Luli suddenly van- 
ishes from the scene, without inviting Zora 
to follow her ; and Glencairn's attentive ear 
informs him that she has crossed the li- 
brary into the drawing-room. Leaving 
Zora pretending to be absorbed in the 
Times which he has laid down — and to 
which she appears now devoted because 
such a pretence alike shields her from 
meeting his eyes, and absolves her from 
holding any conversation with him — Glen- 
cairn follows Luli. 

A pair of heavy curtains drawn together 
across an arch form the portiere that 
divides the library from the drawing-room. 

Standing silently in the library, he listens 
for a moment to hear if any sobs or signs 
of hysterics are audible ; for he knows his 


daughter just well enough to be aware 
that her composure does not mean in- 
difference, and that she is sometimes 
calmest when most deeply moved — for a 
while, until the reaction comes. Hearing 
no sound, he softly parts the heavy, noise- 
less curtains a finger's width and looks 
between them quietly. 

No ! she is not weeping ; she is not faint- 
ing; she evidently needs no soothing nor 

She sits there with the picture in her 
hand, gazing on it as if entranced, still as 
a statue; and her face is a revelation to 
the watcher ! A lovelier crimson than ever 
of old has suffused her wan, pale cheeks ; 
a mist akin to tears, but too soft and rap- 
turous for tears, mellows the burning 
brightness of her large, intense, and fever- 


ishly piercing eyes. Her lips are apart, 
and she seems scarcely to breathe, and all 
her fair face is flushed and hallowed by the 
ineffable shadow and glory of a love that 
has no more to say to earth — a measureless 
love overflowing the limits of Life, a divine 
love strong as Death. 

" In the infinite spirit is room 
For the pulse of an infinite pain." 

But the potentiality of the soul is not 
infinite for only pain. It is as infinite for 
endurance, and for love, love that is the 
body's weakness and the spirit's strength. 

The look upon Luli's face revealed to 
Glencairn, like a flash of lightning across 
the darkness, a truth to which he had been 
blind, and yet did not reveal the whole 
truth to his self -sealed eyes. He saw that 
this was not only memory, but love still ; 


he did not see that it was a love that would 
last while memory lasted — a memory that 
would endure during her life, and that 
might probably not have long to endure. 
For Lull's eyes, spiritual always, wore so 
divine a look now — it seemed as though the 
soul were so far stronger than the body that 
it was but tarrying for a day before it spread 
its eternal wings — a captive too strong for 
the frail bars of Life to prison in. 

Presently her lips moved ; she breathed 
a whisper so softly than even in the utter 
silence her voice scarcely reached the lis- 
tener's ears. 

" So long ago, my darling ! " she mur- 
mured. " How long it seems to me ! And 
yet — but yesterday ! Is it long to you ? 
Time is short — and there is all Eternity — 
for us ! for you and me, my love !" 


Glencairn drew back, and drove bis nails 
into the palms of his hands as he stood, 
pale and stern, alone. After a moment he 
stepped forward and pulled aside the cur- 
tains with a rough and resolute hand, and 
with a look as if he were walking up to the 
muzzles of levelled guns, he strode across 
the room to Lull's side. She started, and 
her colour changed, but she looked up at 
him serenely with those dreamy, far-away 
eyes that gazed beyond his face. He bent 
over her and looked at the portrait, resting 
his arm upon her shoulder. 

So together they looked on the silent 
shadow of that beautiful face that should 
never smile its bright living smile on 
them again, that was marble still and 
stern, yet retaining something of awful 
reminiscence of its living beauty even in 


the stony fixity of death, when they last 
looked upon it with the burning gaze of 
agony too deep for tears. So like ! so like 
the dead ! the large clear eyes seerned to 
smile with the old winning frankness. Sure- 
ly those firm curved mobile lips would part 
to speak ! surely the straying curls of hair 
over the broad brow would wave as they 
used to do when he half impatiently tossed 
them back ! 

"It is like," Glencairn said, in deep, 
harsh, but carefully composed tones. " But 
put it away, Luli. Do not brood upon the 
past. Let it lie." 

There was a betrayal of passion and 
earnestness, however suppressed, in the 
tone with which he uttered the last words, 
that was unusual to him. Luli only an- 
swered him by a look of affection and a 


sad half-smile, that just curved her lips, 
and did not reach her eyes. Then she 
rose and slipped her hands through his 
arm and clung there trustingly ; and so 
they left the room together, and returned 
to Zora, who disguised with her usual skill 
the thrill of pain, and almost of horror, that 
always shot through her when she wit- 
nessed any demonstrations of affection be- 
tween the father and daughter who were so 
closely united in heart, so far apart in soul. 
The two girls were growing more and 
more attached to each other, partly because 
they were each of loving and loveable na- 
tures, partly on account of the secret and 
mysterious sympathy which was working 
unknown to draw them near together. 
They had hitherto mutually avoided any 
allusion to the tragedy which had so terri- 



bly cut short their pleasant days at Como ; 
indeed they had never mentioned Duke 
Mayburne at all, although the thought of 
him was, especially now that they were 
together, always uppermost in both their 
hearts. Perhaps it was this secret sym- 
pathy, which in Lull's heart at least was 
an occult instinct uncomprehended by her- 
self, or perhaps the fact that her spirit was 
stirred and excited by the receipt of the 
portrait, that led her now to break through 
the ice of their mutual reserve, and inspired 
her with an irresistible impulse to show 
to Zora the photograph she had received 
that morning. 

Zora had guessed what it was long before 
Lull put it into her hand, although Lull's 
few half-faltering words had named no 
name ; and Zora shrank away, her breast 


heaved, and an imperceptible shudder 
chilled and thrilled her, as she forced 
herself reluctantly to take the portrait in 
her hand and turn her eyes upon it. 

" Do you think it is like?" murmured Luli, 
softly, with an irrepressible yearning and 
craving tenderness betraying itself in her 

Zora looked on the likeness of the man 
who lay in his far-off grave, whom her 
rash, erring love had unwittingly caused 
to be so stricken down in his prime, whom 
she had loved with the first warm up- 
breaking of the passion of her heart, nay, 
more ! for whom this day, this hour, her 
heart throbbed passionately still ! Al- 
though her eyes were bent down upon 
it, she felt that Lull's eyes were fixed 
upon her. Her lips quivered, and 



.the delicate faint rose tint faded and 
left her cheeks ashy white. The hand 
in which she held the portrait trembled, 
and tears welled up and brimmed fast over 
the long black eyelashes. Luli saw these 
signs, and a light broke then upon her. 
She laid her hand upon Zora's gently, and 
bent closer to her, and the force of mag- 
netism, irresistible, unexplained, compelled 
Zora, reluctant as she was, and shrinking 
and trembling, to lift her tearful eyes and 
meet Lull's gaze. 

Both were silent, only their eyes searched 
each other s depths, Zora's half fearfully, 
terrifiedly, yet earnestly, Lull's with a pure, 
piercing, yet tender scrutiny, that had 
nothing to conceal nor fear. The one look 
slowly grew from a search to a certainty, 
and in its solemn silence said, " You loved 


him, tlien ?" The other was the look of a 
suppliant, confessing but concealing still, 
and in its mute appeal said " Forgive me !" 

Luli drew Zora to her with an infinite 
gentleness, and kissed her with a solemn 
tenderness that would have beseemed an 
eternal farewell, but that was given as the 
pledge of a never-to-be-worded sympathy, 
the seal upon a never-to-be-broken bond. 

Zora could not take it as an absolution ; 
for she knew too well that Luli had not the 
most distant dream of what she had to 

Bursting into passionate tears, Zora 
threw herself down at Luli's knees, and 
clung to her, and sobbed over her and 
wept upon her bosom, and yet dared not 
return her soothing kisses. The weak and 
stormy heart breaking beneath its secret 


and its remorse, beat throb for throb 
against the heart too pure to suspect, too 
guileless to conceal. 

'* Dear Zora, dearest Zora!" whispered 
Lulfs soft voice, " I had not a dream of 
this before ! But you will be all the dearer 
to me now." 

''Now !" Luli repeated dreamily, as if 
murmuring to herself. *' Could I have 
said so if he had been living? No, I 
could not then ! Earth is earth. Even 
Love is not perfect here !" 

Zora only sobbed in answer. Luli had 
no tears to shed. She soothed and com- 
forted Zora, unsuspicious of the sorrow she 
was soothing, and rocked her on her breast 
like a child until she had caressed her into 
calm. But across her own far-off yearning 
eyes there came no mist ; they looked far 


and clear away to heaven tlirougli no 
blinding veil of tears. 

When Zora was calmer, they both in 
resistless love and memory were drawn to 
bend their eyes again on the unchanged 
face whose life-like shadow the sun had 
preserved for them, so like, so "unlike 
evermore !" 

** He was young — to die — and to die — 
so r said Luli, in the suppressed tone of 
deep emotion. And there came then over 
her face the implacable look that only one 
thought could ever bring upon those soft, 
fair features. Putting her lips close to 
the picture, she whispered,' in a strange, 
stern whisper, 

" How shall we ever know, love ? They 
say the * sprites of injured men shriek up- 
ward from the sod !' But you are silent. 


If you would but give us a sign ! If you 
would reveal it to me ! Shall I never know 
— until vou tell me in Heaven !" 


She was silent, and her breath came 
short and gasping, and Zora saw how 
convulsively she trembled. 

Zora, white with horror, terror, and 
pain, looked on and endured. Under the 
slighter ordeal she had broken down and 
sobbed and wept. Under this too terrible 
strain she rose strong in the defiance of 
utter desperation, with firmly closed lips, 
with eyes from which every betraying 
expression had fled. Guarding the hideous 
secret she was bound to keep with more 
than determination, with more than honour, 
with the jealous fury and terror of a lioness 
shielding from the hunter the cave where 
the helpless cubs are lying, she braced her 


every nerve up to the strain for Lull's sake. 
Her eyes did not quail as she turned them 
upon Lull's face ; her fingers did not 
tremble as she took the portrait resolutely 
away from her ; her voice did not quiver 
as she said, with desperately compelled 
firmness — 

" Put it away. Do not look any^ more. 
You must not agitate yourself." 

Lull controlled her emotion, and passed 
her hand over her eyes with a sigh. 

" I will take it up to my room," she said, 
after a pause. '' I keep all — those things 
—there !" 

Zora, herself the more sorely agitated 
from the imperative necessity of suppres- 
sion, anxious to be alone and free, yet 
unwilling to leave Lull unwatched and 
uncared for, followed Lull to her room. 


There Lull unlocked a drawer, and laid 
the portrait tenderly away amid other 
treasured relics — the presents he had given 
her, the letters he had written her. Zora, 
looking over her shoulder, noticed that, at 
the back of this drawer, was a square 
cedar-wood box. As Luli was about to 
close the drawer, her eyes, too, fixed on 
this. She paused, holding the drawer 
half open, some irresistible magnetism 
seeming to hold her gaze riveted there, to 
paralyse her eye from turning away. As if 
she were impelled by some external force, 
her hand slowly moved towards it ; yet she 
shuddered as her fingers rested on the lid. 

" What is it you keep there ?" asked 
Zora, shrinking away, with a presentiment 
that told her what it was before Luli, still 
as if rather obeying some power than 


her own volition, slowly lifted the lid. 

Zora covered her face with her hands. 

" Don't — don't touch it, I^uli !" she almost 
shrieked. '' Shut it up ! How can you 
bear to look at it ?" 

" It would be strange if I could not bear 
to look at that. I have borne worse." She 
looked at Zora, and added, with the ghost 
of a smile — "Why do you shrink away, 
Zora ? It is not loaded ; it is harmless 
now. It is the only evidence. Sometimes 
I think it is all there ever will be. And it 
is silent. It tells no tales." 

Standing there, looking down upon the 
weapon that once had been pointed with 
aim too sure at the life she loved, Lull 
gazed back into the past, and in her mind's 
eye saw the last look of his living face 
again — saw him as he stood on the thres- 


hold of the half -lit marble hall — heard his 
last good night. The memory was too 
real — too vivid ! It seemed that her arms 
clung still round his neck in that last fond 
and smiling good night ; she felt his last 
kiss on her lips again. She put up her 
hands to hide her eyes, as if to shut the 
too clear memory out. 

" Oh, it was not by his own hand he 
died !" she murmured suddenly, after a 
minute's silence, with suppressed passion 
that shook all her frame. " Not his ; not 
his. I know it — I feel it in my heart. 
What hand was it then ?" 

She lowered her hands, and let her fin- 
gers rest quiveringly, recoilingly, yet as if 
rooted by some restless fascination, on the 
clouded steel barrel. She fixed her eyes 
upon the weapon with a wild and intense 


searching, as if all the forces of her soul 
were wasted and outpoured in that one pas- 
sionate, craving, terrible questioning, 

''What hand was it?" 

Zora shuddered and drew back. Her 
over-wrought nerves and superstitious fancy 
filled her with strange horror. It seemed 
to her as if that burning magnetic gaze of 
Luli's must force some supernatural re- 
vealing of the truth. 

" Come away, Luli ! come downstairs f 
lock that drawer and leave it !" she cried 
vehemently. "I am very wrong — I am 
wicked — to let you look — to let you try 
your strength like this. If you have no 
mercy on yourself, you will kill me if you 
will not let those memories rest ! 1 can- 
not bear them !" 

Luli yielded instantly, but with a sort 


of astonishment in her eyes. It seemed so 
strange to her that they who had borne 
that fiery trial should not be able to bear 
the memory of it. 

" Forgive me, Zora dear," she whispered 
softly ; " I am so grieved if I have caused 
you pain ! I would not hurt you — you of 
all the world, now 1" 

BOOK Till. 




" A little while for scheming 
Love's unperfected schemes ; 
A little while for golden dreams, 
Then no more any dreaming ! 

" A little time for speaking 

Things sweet to say and hear ; 
A time to seek and find thee near ; 
Then no more any seeking !" 


fTlHE i^e-opening of old wounds caused by 
tlie contemplation of those sad souve- 
nirs, and by her interview with Zora and 
the new light thrown on Zora's interest in 
the tragedy that she now saw touched 
them mutually, proved too much for Luli. 
Her strength had been over-taxed, and 



broke down suddenly, as Zora had feared, 
so that she was obliged to return to her 
room and remain there all day. 

" You should not let her excite herself," 
Glencairn said sternly to Zora, when just 
before luncheon he made his — to Zora most 
unwelcome — appearance in his daughter's 

''It was not Zora's fault," said Luli. 
^' She is almost as much a tyrant as you 
are," she added, forcing a smile. 

He bent over her and lifted her hand, 
which was ice-cold and damp and lay trem- 
bling in his ; he felt her fluttering pulse, 
and looked anxiously on the face that 
flushed and paled by turns,, and the irregu- 
larly heaving breast. . 

" You must not allow yourself to be up- 
set; you ought to know how bad it is for 


you," he said, with something stern and 
despotic even in his affection. "If you 
will not take proper care of yourself, I 
shall have to guard you more strictly still 
from all possible renewals of old associa- 

"It is not that — it is not that," she 
pleaded eagerly, her eyes filling with tears. 
^' I have been so well lately. I can't imagine 
why I feel ill to-day. But indeed, indeed, 
you must not be anxious, dearest father ! 
I shall be quite well soon." 

When Martin Grijfiths, whose visits had 
now become like a regular daily part of the 
domestic machinery of the villa, paid his 
usual visit, he looked sorely disappointed 
to find that Luli was not visible. The 
disappointment on his face was curiously 
ill-matched by the involuntary expression of 



relief and satisfaction tliat brightened up 
Zora's countenance as lie entered the din- 
ing-room. She had been scheming how to 
escape a tete-a-tete meal with Glencairn ; and 
Luli had unconsciously done her best to 
frustrate these schemes by unselfishly in- 
sisting that Zora should go down to luncheon 
without her. 

Mr. Griffiths would have felt flattered if 
he had taken any heed of Zora's pleased 
smile of welcome ; but Zora was to him so 
simply regarded as an appendage, albeit a 
pretty and pleasing appendage, to Luli, 
that he did not waste his time in studying 
the expression of her face, which he would 
probably only have done to its misinterpre- 
tation. The one that ever puzzled him in 
Zora, and fixed his attention on her, was 
her evident uneasiness under Glencairn's 


eye. He sometimes put it down to shy- 
ness ; but then with every other person she 
had that sweet self-possession which is the 
very reverse of shyness. 

All that day he waited in vain for a 
glimpse of Luli. The next day, true as the 
needle to the pole, and punctual as clock- 
work to his usual hour, he came again, and 
she had rallied and was much better, indeed 
declared herself quite well, and announced 
her intention of coming down to dinner. 

She knew her father liked to see her 
prettily dressed ; and she put on a white 
dress, and clasped her best jet ornaments 
round her neck and wrists, and round the 
coiled coronet of her hair — or rather Zora 
clasped them for her, and arranged her 
dress, and brushed and braided the long 
light shining tresses, that, though they 


were not as luxuriant as of old, were still 
too heavy and abundant for their owner s 
weak little hands to manipulate that day. 
So they got through the toilette process 
slowly, with intervals of rest, Luli laughing 
at her own inability to make more rapid 
progress, and Zora endeavouring to join iu 
the laughter in a natural and sanguine 
manner, and succeeding extremely well ; 
and then they went down to the drawing- 
room, where they were eagerly watched 
and waited for; and where, when Luli 
entered, pale and tall and lovely in her 
drooping grace, — like a lily beaten by the 
wind, and bending its dew-laden chalice 
before the gust, — Glencairn and Griffiths 
greeted her with glad smiles, and she was 
responsively gay; and a general jubilate 
was sung over her re-appearance down- 


Zora's position as silent looker-on was a 
painful one. She saw too mucli and too 
clearly for her own peace ; and her sympa- 
thetic heart ached for others. She dis- 
cerned the unspoken hopes that Glencairn 
and his friend were cherishing ; she knew 
how vain thev were. Her old dread of 
Glencairn endured, so that she dared not 
for her life have dropped a hint of warning 
to him not to hope too much ; and through 
all her fear and aversion there was woven 
in a woof of reluctant compassion now, as 
she noted his sanguine dwelling on every 
shade of colour in his daughter's face, 
every sparkle in his daughter's eye. 

She knew that Luli's brave and loyal 
heart kept her calm and cheerful before 
her father ; she knew too that Luli's soul 
was with her lost love, not drooping in 


hopeless regret over the tomb, but aspiring 
in lofty, yet life-consuming, hope, to a 
world beyond the grave. And she saw 
also, with a shrinking fear and pain, that 
in Luli's dreaming, imaginative nature, 
wherein her father's superstitious spirit 
was reflected, softened, exalted, and puri- 
fied, there lurked always a wonder that no 
sign was given her towards the revealing 
of that one mystery, that between her soul 
and the soul she loved no spark of com- 
munion flashed from world to world. Al- 
ways the unsatisfied cry of LuFs heart 

" Is there never a chink in the world above 
Where they listen for words from below ?" 

and always there heaved and stirred fever- 
ishly restless there, the longing to hnow^ 
the dream that often-times rose to a con- 


viction that some day she should know, by 
whose hand it was that he died. 

Zora was behind the scenes too as to 
Luli's health; she knew with what a 
daily heroic effort Luli kept up her broken 
strength ; she knew how long the pretty, 
simple toilette, that looked so easy and 
natural, took to accomplish, — long, not 
through the vanity, but through the weak- 
ness of the wearer; and she who saw, 
sorrowed for those who did not see, or who 
seeing shut their eyes. 

Glencairn and Griffiths had never yet 
uttered a word touching on the latter s 
growing absorption in Luli, but tacitly 
and mutually they guessed each at the 
other's feelings; and Griffiths knew that 
his friend was not likely to run counter 
to his wishes. In fact Glencairn watched 


the development of this attachment witli 
decided favour and satisfaction. He did 
not know whether Luli responded to it, or 
even perceived it as yet ; but he considered 
there was plenty of time for things to drift 
gradually and slowly towards the climax 
that he had now begun to acknowledge to 
himself he desired. He had forgotten one 
circumstance, which, if he had remembered 
it from the first, would have made him put 
the breadth of the sea at once between 
Martin Griffiths and Luli. But it had 
passed out of his mind ; and he saw no 
obstacle to his darling's living to the dawn 
of new life, new hope, new happiness — 
even if never new love. He took no pains 
to conceal his devoted anxiety about her 
from Griffiths ; indeed he had uncon- 
sciously fallen lately into the habit of 


talking almost as if this anxiety were a 
mutual one. 

'' This is my day for the City," he ob- 
served. *' I should not leave Luli if I 
thought she was not all right ; but I have 
not seen her seem so well for a longtime." 
He added after a moment's silence, 
thoughtfully, " I had a queer dream last 
night, old fellow. I saw what I shall 
never see again. It seemed to me an 
omen of some change." 

''A good one, let us hope. Bat do you 
believe in dreams ?" 

" They mean something. People do not 
all possess that power which enables 
spirits to communicate with them. You 
know that it is not everyone to whom an 
apparition can manifest itself. But in 
dreams there is no one on earth who may 


not receive a sign. Sleep opens the gate 
iio all tliat only some can pass in waking 
hours. This dream of mine was for good, 
I think. It seemed to promise safety and 
rest for my child. If it bodes ill to any- 
one, it can only be to me. That is the 
interpretation I place upon it at least. 
Dreams don't always write their message 
very legibly ! Anyhow, to-day *My bosom's 
lord sits lightly on his throne.' And if 
the railway smashes me up," he continued 
carelessly, but with an under-current of 
earnest meaning, "you'll take care of 


" I would ! Trust me !" replied Martin 

Griffiths with all his heart. " But I hope," 

he added after a moment's pause, " that it 

won't be a railway smash that will give me 

the privilege of taking care of her." 


He hesitated a few moments more, as if 
reflecting, and then began again abruptly, 
as if rushing into a breach before his im- 
pulse had time to cool, 

" Look here, Glencairn ! you and I are 
old friends. Tell me, do you think that 
any other man — I mean, that any man 
now, will ever have a chance with her ?" 

" I can't say. I know no more than you. 
But if I were the man in such a case, I'd 

'* But not — not suddenly ? Not too 

**No," answered Glencairn thoughtfully; 
" I suppose not. It would be useless ; 
perhaps worse than useless. Still women 
are queer creatures ; a man can't under- 
stand them. Each man had better judge 
for himself." 


" I judge," said Griffiths, tentatively, 
^' that he had better bide his time ?" 

Glencairn nodded; and followed this 
affirmative sign after a brief pause by say- 
ing, with one of his rare expansions of 

" Look, Martin, if I could see her safe in 
harbour, I'd drift on my course, be it long 
or short, with a light heart — yes, and an 
easy conscience too, I think." Yet on those 
words he paused, and o»aly after a silence 
continued, " But she would not leave me. 
Do you know, Martin, I think she would 
not leave me. One can't be sure ; but she 
knows well she is all that's left to me." 

" She would not be what she is if she 
could contemplate the thought of any real 
separation from you," said Griffiths, warm- 
ly uttering this truism. " But — Glencairn? 
you would not ?" 


His look of inquiry, rather appealing 
than hesitating, finished the sentence ; and 
the other answered as if it had all been 

'' Object to anything that was for her 
good ? No," he said, gravely, with a pain- 
ful contraction of his already care-furrowed 

" She is growing strong, I think," he 
added. ^' She seems to rally sooner from 
these attacks than she did. You know 
there is nothing really seriously wrong 
with her health. There is no organic 
disease. I have consulted the best physi- 
cians about her. They all agree there is 
no reason why time and care should not 
restore her to perfect strength." 

The conversation was interrupted here 
by the sight of the object of it coming with 


Zora across tlie lawn to join the two gen- 

Martin Griflfitlis looked somewhat as if 
he had been detected in a crime, and gazed 
vaguely away over Lull's head at the tall 
haycart which was lumbering past the gate 
with a group of haymakers, male, female, 
and infant, seated on the top thereof, and 
all uniting their voices in melody. 

" Well, you really feel all right to-day, 
little girl ?" said Glencairn. " I may go up 
to town quite easily; and you will take 
care of yourself ?" 

" My fair tyrant will see to that," said 
Lull, smiling at Zora. 

^*I leave you in good hands, I know," 
continued Glencairn. *' I shall be back 
to-night, but don't sit up for me. Grif- 
fiths, youll stay to dinner with these two 


girls, and look after them in my absence, 
won't you?" 

'' Gladly," said Martin Griffiths, with a 
frank smile of pleasure. 

It was time for Glencairn to go, if he 
meant to catch his train. Luli followed 
him to the gate. She had on a white 
dress again that day, with jet ornaments 
and black ribbons, and with the plain jet 
cross on her bosom, and her simply- 
braided fair hair ; she had something of 
the look of a very fair young novice, 
whose brow was not yet ploughed by the 
weary, monotonous cares of the convent, 
and who had caught, from constant gazing 
on the shrined Madonna, a reflection of 
the Madonna's sweet and lofty serenity. 

The dog came out of his kennel as she 
passed, and yawned and stretched out his 



forepaws, and while yawning, blinked up 
admiringly at her. Then he wagged his 
tail, and followed her as far as his chain 
would permit, and uttered a plaintive and 
remonstrating whine. Luli stopped, and 
laid her hand on the dog's head, and stood 
patting his rough black ears softly, while 
she looked up in her f ather s face, and said 
a good-bye word or two to him. 

Martin Griffiths and Zora were left upon 
the lawn, the former gazing after Luli with 
an expression somewhat resembling the 
dumb, faithful affection in the dog's eyes. 
Only the dog had perhaps most reason for 
his affection, inasmuch as Luli supplied 
him daily with bones and other delicacies. 

" She seems much better to-day," ob- 
served Martin Griffiths, with scarcely con- 
cealed interest, still gazing at the object of 


his admiration, who was within sight, 
though beyond hearing. 

" Oh, yes, she is very well to-day," 
assented Zora. 

** Have you known her long?" asked 
Griffiths; and the curiosity was so frank 
and grave, so far removed from vulgar 
inquisitiveness as not to be in the least 

" Two or three years." 

Zora's presence was a sympathetic one ; 
and Griffiths, standing there in the sun- 
shine, with a fair and sympathising 
listener, and the present goddess of his 
idolatry within view, was inclined to be 
expansive, especially after his conversation 
with Glencairn. 

" Ah ! Two or three years ? I have 



not known her as many months. But it 
seems a long time, somehow." 

Zora looked at him comprehendingly, 
half sadly; he saw by her look that she 
fully understood his feelings, but he did 
not read the sad forecast and compassion 
in her eyes. He smiled in answer to her 
comprehension, not realising her com- 

" She is so young. There is time," he 
said; and then, half startled to find how 
confidential he was involuntarily waxing, 
he pulled up in these confidences, and 
muttered inaudibly to himself, " They say 
there's no fool like an old fool. Maybe it's 

Meanwhile, Glencairn was saying to Luli, 
with an inquiring looking into her face — 

*' Griffiths is a good fellow, isn't he ? 


He'll take care of my little girl in my 

"He is a dear old fellow," responded 
Luli, frankly, but indifferently, for his 
admiration was so silent, his affection so 
little demonstrated, and his manner to her 
so taciturn in its attention, that she did not 
yet perceive his feelings. " Shall we not sit 
up for you to-night, papa ?" 

" No, child, on no account. I hate to 
be hurried ; and I like you to keep early 
hours. Turn Griffiths out in good time, 
and go to bed early. I must be off now. 

Luli lifted her face to kiss him, and laid 
her hand on his shoulder in a graceful, ten- 
der, little parting caress. He looked down 
at the slender arm from which the white 
sleeve slipped back, and his brow clouded 


^' Cbild, how frail and thin you are !" he 
said. " Why, there is nothing left of you ! 
a puff of wind would blow you away !" 

" It would need to be a strong puff," she 
said, laughingly, as he left her. She leant 
over the gate and looked after him; he 
turned and smiled, and she, smiling too, 
blew a light kiss from the tips of her fin- 
gers. Griffiths, watching, thought it must 
be a nice thing to be the father of such a 
daughter ; and Luli, with her crossed arms 
resting on the gate, her head turned to 
look after her father down the road, while 
the soft June breeze played about her and 
tried to breathe some colour into her cheek 
with its kisses, unconscious of Griffiths'" 
gaze, stood watching her father's tall figure 
out of sight. 



" A little time for saying 
Words the heart breaks to say ; 
A short sharp time wherein to pray ; 
Then no more need for praying." 


|\ /TAHTIN GRIFFITHS stayed to dinner 
at the Chalet, according to Glen- 
cairn's arrangement, and had dinner with 
the two girls. After dessert, it being a 
fine warm evening, instead o£ going into 
the drawing-room, they sat in the veran- 
dah. Griffiths, unsupported by Glencairn's 
company, refused to light his cigar. ^' He 
did not care a bit about it ; indeed he 
would rather not," he said ; " it seemed a 


pity to pollute the beautiful clear air." 
" You are getting quite poetic/' said 
Luli ; " which of us have you caught that 
from, I wonder ?" 

The midsummer night was clear and 
mild, and well-nigh as bright as day, with 
the pure and mellow starshine that only 
June nights know in its perfection. There 
was not a hand's-breadth of cloud in all the 
sky ; the air was pure with that divine and 
perfect stillness that often breaks up into 

hunder ; but the thunder seemed far off 

nis night. 

" The shard-borne beetle with his drowsy 
hum " whirred blindly by ; and across the 
twilight space between the verandah and 
the shrubbery there flitted the shadowy 
form of a bat, with its weird featherless 
wings, its crooked flight, whizzing through 


the still air, like a misshapen ghost. 

''I cannot bear those creatures," said 
Luli, shrinkingly. 

" Ah," said Griffiths, — for whom (accord- 
ing to ordinary travellers' wont) the slight- 
est touch was enough to set the machinery 
of memory going — *' I have been where 
every night I used to shake two or three 
out of my curtains, and dislodge half a 
dozen from the corners of the room, and if 
I left the window open, one would be sure 
to come whizzing in and knock over my 
candle. And then tarantulas ! You wouldn't 
like, would you, when you went to put on 
your slipper, to find a tarantula running 
out of the toe of it ?" 

A few delightful reminiscences of bats 
and tarantulas soon wound Mr. Griffiths 
up to the point whereat he would reel off 


travellers' anecdotes by the half dozen. He 
did not relate them very artistically, and 
often spoilt his climaxes ; but there was 
a certain blundering straightforwardness 
about his way of narrating that gave his 
stories an air of reality. This evening he 
began with the tragic love-story of a dusky 
South Sea beauty of Hawaii ; then sudden- 
ly jumping from her grave under the 
tropical waves on to the deck of an Austra- 
lian sailing-vessel becalmed in the Pacific^ 
he finally landed in the United States, and 
related a narrow escape from being smother- 
ed in a snow-storm on the Sierra Nevada. 

The girls listened with interest, a long 
way behind Desdemona's in degree, cer- 
tainly, but still belonging to that kind. It 
is possible that if Griffiths would continue 
steadily to relate new and thrilling anec- 


dotes day after day to his gentle Desdemonaj 
he miglit attain to something of Othello's 
success in time. 

They all agreed that truth was stranger 
far than fiction — " And much more inter- 
esting," added Zora, smoothing Mr. Griffiths' 
vanity with a delicate hand and a shy 
smile. They fell then to talking of fiction 
and fact, of romances in real life, of novels,. 
French and English, and the drama, an- 
cient and modern, skimming from one sub- 
ject to another shallowly and easily as the 
sea-swallow skims along the waves. Pre- 
sently they found themselves discussing the 
differing customs of engagement and mar- 
riage in different civilised countries. 

" Well, they may talk of French refine- 
ment and politesse,'' said Griffiths, in the 
tone with which a stout English bull-terrier 


raiglit speak of a shivering, silk- jacketed, 
toy Italian greyhound, '^ but / don't like 
their ways. Tm unrefined and uncouth 
enough to believe in marrying for love." 

At this stage of the conversation Zora 
recollected that she had a particular letter 
to write that evening, and that there were 
pens, ink, and paper in the library. So she 
arose and withdrew, deeming it discreet to 
leave the other two now that the conversa- 
tion had reached a point from which, if 
Martin GriiB&ths thought it well to make 
any personal allusion, he would find it 
easy to direct it into a channel that suited 
his purpose. 

Griffiths, however, was prudent, and 
bearing in mind his conversation with 
Glencairn that morning, he would not run 
the risk of jarring on Luli's sensitive spirit 


by any premature or unexpected avowal. 
He was not one of those who keep digging 
up the seed to see if it is growing ; he knew 
how easy it is to frighten a timid bird, how 
the very eagerness with which you pursue 
it scares it further away ; and he knew 
well that his time to speak had not yet 

So he did not avail himself of the oppor- 
tunity which Zora had kindly afforded 
him, but continued conversing on the sub- 
ject of French manners and customs, and 
national differences, wherein his British 
prejudices betrayed themselves amusing- 
ly, for, traveller and wanderer though he 
was, his cosmopolitan manner of life had 
not effaced from his mind certain natural 
and national instincts of affinity and repul- 


'^ After all," he added, presently, " if one 
of the worst fellows I ever knew was a 
Frenchman, one of the kindest and best 
fellows was a Frenchman, too. That they 
should have been cousins of the same 
blood, always seems to me a wonder. The 
Maravals, I mean. What a tragic story 
that was altogether ! I daresay your father 
has told you about it often ?" 

"No," said Luli. "Maraval? I don't 
seem to recollect the name. Papa does not 
very often tell me any of the interesting 
anecdotes he knows. You tell me, please," 
and she leant back, and folded her hands 
in her lap, and looked at him, prepared to 

" Why, your father was a great ally of 
poor Claude's. They went partners, you 
see, he and Paul ; and although they never 


were what I should call real true friends, 
there is no doubt that there was some 
quarrel, some high words about that girl, 
at the bottom of it," said Griffiths, who had 
not the happy knack of beginning at the 
right end of a story, and often plunged into 
it in the middle, and then had to go back 
and pick himself up. Instead of picking 
himself up this time, however, he floundered 
further away from the beginning, and 
hazarded losing himself in generalities, by 
continuing, '' "Women generally are at the 
bottom of every quarrel, I fancy; don't you 
think so?" 

" Men say so," she responded, smiling. 
*' But who were these partners who quar- 
relled ? and how did the quarrel turn out?" 

"• Badly enough ; that's what I'm going 
to tell you. Paul Maraval and Claude 


went partners in their claim you see, being 
cousins, and having come out to seek their 
fortune in the gold mines together. They 
struck a good vein, and soon got a tolerable 
pile between them. They weren't a bit 
alike. Claude was a delicate, slim, hand- 
some young fellow ; and Paul a great big 
ruffian, with black eyes that bored you 
through at twenty paces." 

" And they were in love with the same 
girl, I suppose ?" suggested Luli. 

" Yes, just so ; a girl down at Monterey. 
The story went that it was Claude she 
liked first and best, and that she used to 
write long letters to Claude, and that that 
brought on the quarrel. Anyhow, one day 
Paul Maraval and all the gold were gone 
together, and Claude lay nearly dying in 
his cabin. He never let on who struck him 


down, but nobody doubted it was Paul. 
And your father nursed Claude, and looked 
after him like a brother." 

*' Dear papa ! it is like him !" commented 
Luli, affectionately. 

''Well," pursued Griffiths, warming up 
in his narrative, " time went on, and Claude 
got well, and the news came at last that 
Paul was at Monterey with a heap of money, 
and was on the eve of marriage with the 
girl poor Claude was so hard hit about, and 
it turned out that he had told her slanders 
about Claude, to break off her attachment 
to him, you see. So Claude was off in hot 
haste to Monterey, and Glencairn, who was 
on his way there too on his own business, 
travelled the same road. It happened 
rather remarkably that it was on Paul 
Maraval's very wedding-eve that Claude 

VOL. III. s 


and Glencairn came upon him suddenly in 
the saloon. Now this Paul was one of the 
deadest shots I ever knew, and he'd got a 
pistol that he used to say had his luck in it, 
for with it he'd never failed to hit his mark. 
Of course his game was to put Claude in 
the wrong, and make as if he were provok- 
ed to fire first." 

*'Well?" inquired Luli, getting inte- 

" Well, it went against all one's notions 
of poetical justice ; it was the villain who 
fired and hifc ; it was poor Claude's pistol- 
arm that fell lamed at his side, so that he 
couldn't return the shot. Your father was 
unarmed^ oddly enough, that night, I don't 
know how it happened. And there are not 
many men who would have thrown them- 
selves unarmed upon Paul Maraval, — Mara- 


val being known to be the desperate charac- 
ter he was, — as Glencairn did, yes, and 
wrested his pistol out of his hand in a 
scuffle the witnesses didn't forget in a 
hurry. He kept that pistol of Maraval's, 
by the way, as a sort of relic, or trophy. I 
wonder whether he has it still ?" 

" A little gilt and ivory one ? — yes," said 
Luli in a low voice, moved by the associa- 
tions this cheerful narrative had stirred in 
her, but not betraying any agitation, and 
perfectly unsuspicious still. 

" No, a silver-mounted one ; with an M 
embossed on it. I daresay your father 
hasn't showed it to you; he is rather 
superstitious, I remember, and this revolver 
was deemed unlucky. I daresay your 
father wouldn't like to see anything un- 
lucky in your delicate little hands. Poor 



Claude's wrongs were well avenged any- 
how; for the end of Paul Maraval 


But the end of Paul Maraval Lull was 
destined never to hear. Griffiths, unsus- 
piciously rambling on through his story, 
had not noticed that his words had any 
effect upon her. She had not uttered a 
cry or a sigh ; she had scarcely started ; 
she had only raised her head and turned it 
towards him ; but in the twilight he could 
not see the strange sudden paleness that 
had overspread her face, could not know the 
violent bound and then the heavy stillness 
of her heart. Still he thought it was a 
little unusual that she, who was habitually 
so gentle and courteous, should interrupt 
him so abruptly, as if she were quite un- 
conscious that he was speaking at all. 


" Silver - mounted ? double - barrelled ? 
witb an M embossed on it ?" said Luli, 
without waiting to hear what became of 
the Maraval cousins, and speaking in a 
low, hard, mechanical voice, yet incredu- 
lously, as though she doubted whether she 
could have heard aright. 

"Yes, that's it." 

Some instinct told Griffiths that he had 
no longer an interested and sympathetic 
listener, and he did not continue his narra- 
tive, but waited and looked at her ques- 
tioningly in the unrevealing twilight that 
veiled the expression of her eyes from his. 
Yet had he been able to see them, he 
could only have read there a sort of stunned, 
startled bewilderment — a numb, half para- 
lysed wonder. 

'* Am I dreaming? "What is this ?" 


She rose up suddenly from his side. 
'' Wait for me here a minute," she said 
quietly, and passed swiftly into the house. 
In a few minutes she came back, and on 
her return encountered Zora crossing the 
dining-room — Zora modest and self-pos- 
sessed and serpentinely graceful as usual, 
with her letter in her hand, apparently 
half hesitating as to whether she should 
venture out into the verandah, where she 
looked somewhat surprised at seeing 
Griffiths alone. 

Luli, unlike Luli's usual self, did not 
speak to Zora, but brushed past her, and 
went straight to Martin Griffiths's side. 

" Come round the garden with me," she 
whispered, totally unconscious of the pos- 
sible effect and inference of her words, and 
simply desirous to get out of Zora's hearing. 


" Certainly," said Griffiths, starting up 
witli alacrity. "Keep your shawl round 
you; the evening air is cool," he added, 
noticing that she had clasped her hands in 
the drapery of the shawl that crossed her 
chest and was thrown over her shoulder. 

They were out of sight of the window 
where Zora stood. Luli stopped and drew 
something from the folds of her shawl. 

" Is this the revolver?" she said, holding 
it out to him. 

'* Yes, I think so. Ah yes, that's it ! 
see the M on it !" he said, bending to 
examine it in the moonlight, for across the 
path where they stood now one pale ray of 
moonlight streamed. " But don't keep it, 
if it's unlucky," he added. ^' 1 can't bear 
that anything that is even supposed to be 
unlucky, and that has such dark associa- 


tions of crime with it, should come near 
you r 

She looked at him vaguely, without 
seeming to hear what he was saying, not 
seeing him in truth. Her face was turned 
away from the light, but even in the dusk 
of shadow something in her look struck 
him with anxiety. He rather saw with his 
mind's eye, than with his body's sight, that 
something was wrong, though he guessed 
not what. 

"Luli?" he began questioningly, ten- 
derly ; but she answered, as if she had not 
heard him speak, in a half-bewildered, be- 
seeching way, 

"Don't tell my father, please — that I 
have — shown fyou — this. He Would be 
vexed with me for meddling with his things. 
I — must go in — now." 


*' Are you ill, Lull ?" lie asked anxiously. 

" No — only — chilled. I'm cold — my heart 
is cold," she murmured, brokenly. 

By the light of the lamp in the dining- 
room both Grifl&ths and Zora saw Luli's 
face as she passed quickly by them, and 
almost fled away from them, saying only, 
'' Don't follow me." They looked at each 
other as the door swung to behind her, and 
they heard her light feet fly upstairs as 
though something were pursuing her. 

" Is she not well ? How pale and 
strange she looks !" said Zora, looking 

" She said she was chilled. What can 
be the matter with her?" said Griffiths, 

"What have you been talking about? 
what have you been saying to her ?" asked 


"Nothing, I was only telling her an 
anecdote about an interesting case of rival- 
ry and robbery and all that — a fellow who 
shot his cousin — but surely " 

" Shot his cousin ? you have been telling 
her about a murder of that sort ?" exclaim- 
ed Zora. " It was that then ! of course. 
Why, don't you know? have you never 
heard " 

" Heard what ? I know nothing. Yes, 
I know she was engaged. Was he 
then " 

"Shot," replied Zora, in a low voice, 

" Good God ! if I had only known ! But 
I, like a blundering idiot, went on telling 
her how her father wrested the pistol 
from the man's hand, and kept it as a 
relic, and asked her if he had it still ; and 


of course it must all be a most painful sub- 
ject to her, poor child !" 

" Kept the pistol ! he ! her father kept 
the pistol? and you asked her — about 
that r cried Zora, starting, white with hor- 
ror and dismay, the truth bursting upon 
her like a thunderbolt. Then recovering 
herself and remembering that, while there 
lingered a hope of keeping the secret, it 
must be guarded still with all the power 
of heart and brain, she added hurriedly, in 
agitated explanation, 

'* She has never got over it — we never 
speak of it to her — he was killed — shot — 
and we never let her hear of any such 


" I am very sorry. I shall come to-mor- 
row early. Go to her now," said Griffiths^ 
sorely troubled, and took his leave. 


Zora flew to Lull's door ; it was locked ; 
Zora tried to open it, and pleaded, " Let 
me m! 

" Who is there ?" asked Lull, in a strange 
suppressed voice. 

" Only I, darling. Are you not well ? 
may I not come in ?" 

"I am quite well. Leave me, please," 
vras all tlie answer she received. 

It was useless to vex her by persisting, 
^ora left her, but did not venture downstairs 
again. Glencairn might return; and she 
dared not face him with the news that the 
old skeleton had risen and rattled its bones 
in Lull's face. She wondered over all that 
Griffiths might have said to Luli, conjectured 
fearfully how much his words had led her 
to suspect. Did she suspect at all? or 
was she only overstrung and agitated ? — 


and if site suspected, did her suddenly 
aroused suspicions drive in tlie direction of 
the truth ? 

Trembhng with terror and excitement, 
and the consciousness that all the house- 
hold hung blindly and darkly on the brink 
of some gulf, whose depths they could not 
guess, Zora crept to her bed, and lay 
listening, and started and shook as she 
heard Glencairn's foot upon the stair. 

But he, supposing they were sleeping, 
and that all was well, did not call for Luli, 
but passed, with cautiously quiet footfall, 
in unsuspecting tranquillity, to his room, 
while Zora lay shivering in cold thrills 
of fear and foreboding. 



*' None shall triumph a whole life through ; 

For death is one and the fates are three ; 

At the door of life, by the gate of breath, 

There are worse things waiting for men than death. 

Death could not sever my soul and you, 
As these have severed your soul from me." 


"'TTTHEEE are the young ladies?'' 
inquired Glencairn, the next 
morning, as he stood by the breakfast- 

*^ Please, sir, Miss Luli "began the 

servant, rather hesitatingly. 

** Isn't she well?" he interrupted her, 


" I don't know, sir ; but Miss Zora won't 
come down, and says she don't want any 
breakfast ; and Miss Luli is locked in her 



"Yes, sir; she won't let Miss Zora in, I 

Glencairn waited to hear no more, but 
strode upstairs to Luli's room. Outside 
Luli's door Zora was standing, with her 
hand on the latch, as if she had been 
asking for admittance. At sight of Glen- 
cairn she started, and drew hastily back, 
and looked round, as if contemplating a 
flight to her own room. His heavy hand 
on her shoulder arrested her; his eyes 
fastened, like the dull, malignant eyes of a 
serpent, on her face. 

'^ What's the matter ?" he said. 


"I don't know — I can't imagine. She 
will not open her door." 

Glencairn shook the lock with an impa- 
tient hand. 

*' Open the door, Luli." 

There was a moment's silence; then a 
hasty, uncertain step crossed the floor. 
The key was turned, the latch lifted, and 
the door flung open wide, with an abruptness 
and carelessness totally uncharacteristic 
of Luli, and opposite to her usual leisurely 
softness. She stood before them, facing 
them, white and wild, her startled eyes 
like those of a wild creature hunted to 
the brink of a precipice, and turning there 
to bay. She had on the white dress she 
had worn the previous night; the same 
jet cross hung on her bosom; the same 
ribbon that had bound back the smooth 


bright blonde braids of hair yesterday had 
slipped loosely down among the tangled 
and disordered tresses now. 

*' What do you want?" she said. 

The wildness of her gaze, the uncer- 
tainty with which her eye wandered, her 
deadly 'paleness, and the strange abrupt- 
ness of her tone, struck them both with a 
cold shudder of alarm. It was not 
insanity, but the wildness of a brain over- 
fraught with fearful doubts and dreads. 

" Child, what is the matter ?" 

"Luli, dear, what is it?" faltered Zora. 

But though Zora asked what was the 
matter, something in her manner, in her 
manifest shrinking and nervous agitation, 
in the terror and the consciousness with 
which her dark eyes glanced and sank, 
betrayed to Luli's excited and high-strung 



perceptions that Zora had no need to ask. 
Whatever it was that had to be known, 
Zora knew it! This conviction flashed 
upon Luli swift and clear as lightning, 
as Zora's tremulous, fearful glance wa- 
vered between herself and Glencairn. 
Unsuspicious even to obtuseness gen- 
erally, unnaturally keen-sighted now, the 
conviction struck home to Lull's heart 
at once, but struck her with no added 
pang. All she knew, all she thought, all 
her poor bewildered tortured brain had 
room to comprehend, was this. The 
weapon that had caused her lover's death, 
concerning which there had been such 
marvel and such mystery, the weapon 
whose possession if traced to anyone would 
have given a clue at once towards that 
mystery's solution, was her father's, had 


been in her father's possession for years. 
Why then had her father kept this strange 
silence both at that time and since ? why 
had he borne no witness ? given no evi- 
dence? This was all that she could 
realize ; this question only had been burn- 
ing like red-hot iron in her dizzy, whirling 
brain during all the vigil of that night 
which had seemed endless, yet ended all 
too soon. 

So silent under thoughts too terrible to 
be put into words, — speechless lest the 
question to which there seemed but one 
answer, and that too full of horror for her 
to endure and live, should burst from her 
lips, — faint and dizzy, and feeling like one 
being whirled through space, with the rush 
of innumerable waters in her ears and 

black night surging round her, she let 

T 2 


them take her by the hand and question 
her and lead her downstairs. 

They looked at each other in silence 
then, and saw, and yet turned their eyes 
away from seeing, that the evil hour was 
upon them. While yet she lay panting 
and mute, unable to find words to utter, on 
the sofa where they had laid her, while 
they watched her and dared not push their 
questions so far as to precipitate the mo- 
ment that Zora at least knew must come, 
Martin Grij3iths, anxious to know whether 
Luli had recovered from her last night's 
indisposition, appeared upon the scene. 

He had no need to ask any question ; he 
saw at once the terrible change in her. Pale 
and startled, he bent over her and lifted the 
frail hand and laid his fingers on the little 


Lull looked up at him, and for a mo- 
ment she seemed to breathe more freely 
— to draw in a purer air. In the stifling 
coils of the nightmare in which she was 
struggling, the presence of a spirit that 
was true, the subtle influence of a soul that 
was loyal and open and sincere, touched 
her with a kind of unaccountable relief. 
"What other influence was it that unlocked 
her painfully closed lips, and led her to 
break the unnatural silence she had held ? 

" She is very ill," Griffiths said, anxiously. 

" I am not ill," she said, with a sort of 
wild impatience as if breaking free from 
some imprisonment, " I am dead ! They 
killed me two years ago — they killed me 
with him ! My life was over from the hour 
they brought him to me dead. And this 
house is haunted ! the air is full of horror. 


I am stifled in it !" Her eye wandered 
away from him and glanced wildly around. 
Slie turned and raised herself half up sud- 
denly, and looked at Glencairn and Zora. 
Glencairn had drawn Zora aside, and she 
was shrinking away from the stern demand 
of his gaze. 

" What have you done to her ? what 
have you said to her ?" he asked, in a deep, 
low whisper. 

" Nothing, on my soul !" protested Zora, 
solemnly, gathering from the truth the 
courage to look up. 

Luli watched their faces with a strange 
look. ** Go to papa — in the next room, you 
and he," she said, very quietly under her 
breath to Griffiths. " Zora, come here to 

Zora went and stood by Luli's side, as 
Griffiths drew Glencairn apart. 


The moment she found herself alone 
with Zora, Luli with a sudden effort sprang 
to her feet, and caught Zora's two hands 
in hers. Her slender fingers strained 
Zora's with a strength that was startling ; 
she drew her back further away from the 
door with a force that was irresistible ; her 
eyes flamed upon Zora's face, and pierced 
down into the depths of Zora's soul. 

*^ You know" Luli said, in an awful 
whisper, "and you shall tell me, now and 
here ! How came he by his death T' 

Zora, paralysed, at first could not speak. 

" How can I know ?" she then gasped. 

" You know" repeated Luli, in the same 
deep unnatural whisper. '' You shall tell 
me. I will kill you if you don't !" 

Her sHght frail fingers grasped Zora's 
hands till they almost bruised them ; and 


Zora shrank and shivered with a faint cry 
of fear, for all the tiger nature of her father 
glared in Lull's altered eyes. 

" Lull — Luli — I can't ! I can't ! Come 
back — oh, Mr. Glencairn! come back," cried 
Zora, desperately. *' Come back — tell her 
I do not know!" 

Griffiths and Glencairn were on the spot 
in a moment. Glencairn stood between 
the two girls, pushing Zora back almost 
roughly, challenging Lull's eyes with the 
grim defiance and agony of his own. Luli 
was past all dread now. Her fearless gaze 
did not shrink from her father's ; her steady 
hands did not tremble as they searched 
in the folds of her dress, and closed with 
a convulsive tenacity on the betraying relic 
of the past tragedy — the silver mount- 
ed revolver, unloaded and harmless now, 

GLENCxilEN. 281 

harmless as a baby's plaything, yet more 
murderous this day in its bloodless be- 
trayal than in the days when it had done 
its work. 

** How came this — yours — there ?" she 
said, and to that voice and to those eyes 
no living lips could answer a lie. 

" Who told her it was mine ?" cried Glen- 
cairn, savagely, turning with a flash of 
fury upon Martin Griffiths. 

" How came it there ?" she asked again, 
and this time there was a passion of plead- 
ing in her tone, as she seized and clung to 
the last frail floating straw of hope to keep 
her from sinking into the hideous depths 
thatyawned before her horror-stricken eyes. 

But the sullen and defiant desperation 
on Glencairn's face snatched away that last 


"Did she tell you?" he demanded^ 
pointing to Zora. 

" No," said Luli, staring at him wildly. 

*• So — it was your hand !" she said after 
a pause, with a sort of bewilderment in her 

And there then was a silence. 

The hour has come now, and they know 
it. Destiny has overtaken Glencairn, and 
he turns to face it without a word, surren- 
ders, knowing his case hopeless, without an 
attempt at self-defence or denial. 

Luli has no reproach to utter, no question 
to ask. 

Her eyes seem to recede, and a strange 
light flickers in their depths, and though 
they are fixed still upon her father's face, 
it is as if they saw it not. Her breast 
heaves, and she seems to be struggling for 


breath; her lips twitch and quiver con- 
vulsively ; at last they are distorted into 
the fearful " semblance of a smile," and a 
wild scream of laughter bursts from them. 

As that laugh, ending in a piercing 
shriek, strikes upon his ear, Glencairn 
starts and rushes from the room. 

He brushes roughly past a servant who, 
startled by the scream, is running upstairs,. 
and flies into the open air. 

How long he stayed out, how far he 
walked, or where he went, he never knew. 
He was not conscious of time nor place. 

So, during those hours that he had 
deemed he left her to the possibilities of 
the dawn of new hopes and affections, he 
had left her to horror and despair. And 
from the hand he had dreamt might lead 


her towards tlie light had fallen the blow 
that had cast her into the abyss. He did 
not wonder how all would end. It seemed 
to him that all was ended. The vessel 
had gone down, with all hopes on board, 
sunk suddenly in sight of land. He 
heaped curses, the deeper and bitterer for 
their silence, on his own forgetfulness in 
leaving out of his calculations that one 
piece of fatal knowledge which Griffiths 
possessed. But he could not think; he 
could not reflect. The past, the present, the 
future seemed blotted out. '' Total eclipse 
amidst the blaze of noon." He could see 
nothing. He could not have told whether 
moments, hours, or days had past before 
he stood before his own door again. With 
the look on his face he would have worn 
had he stood with his back to the wall 


facing a howling mob thirsting for liis 
blood, be stood upon tbe threshold facing 
the news that might await him. 

The servant who opened the door was in 
tears, and sobbed louder at the sight of 
him. But in a moment Zora came for- 
ward, and reached her hand towards him. 
Was the gesture one of warning, or of 
entreaty ? 

He looked in her face and stood still, as 
if he had been shot. 

" What has happened ?" he said ; and the 
servant thought his tone showed want of 

Zora was silent a moment, her breast 
heaving, but no tears in her solemn, awe- 
struck eyes. Then she whispered, in a 
faltering voice, 

" It is well with her now." 


He looked down on the ground, and his 
stern lips did not quiver ; his face might 
have been cut out of marble. 

"Dead?" he said. 

And Zora breathed faintly, " Yes." 



" You should have wept her yesterday, 
Wasting upon her bed ; 
But wherefore should you weep to-day 

That she is dead ? 
Lo, we who love weep not to-day, 
But crown her royal head." 

Christina Rossetti. 

TT was on Zora tliat the task of meeting 
Glencairn witli the news had fallen; 
for Griffiths, strong man though he was, at 
that moment was too broken down to face 
Luli's father with the tidings that must be 
told. It was not Glencairn only who was 
to suffer; on Griffiths too the blow had 
fallen with stunning force. The words of 
love that he had kept in his heart, and 


longed to breathe, had been at last spoken ; 
the hour he had counted on, when he might 
set himself free to utter them, had come — 
and thej had been outpoured at last ! upon 
a dying ear unconscious of them, upon a 
dead ear that heard them not ! So it was 
Zora, weak though she was in herself, yet 
brave in her womanly sympathies, who took 
the responsibility of bearing the ill news. 

'^ How was it ?" asked Glencairn. 

He had led Zora into the dining-room, 
and shut the door. 

" Why don't you speak ?" he added. 
" Do you think I can't bear it? Haven't I 
borne worse ? Tell me all." 

" There is little to tell," murmured Zora. 
" She broke a blood-vessel almost directly 
after you left the house. Mr. Griffiths 
went for the doctor ; but he came too late 


to do anything for lier. She never spoke 
— or at least spoke no articulate words — 
till just the last." 

*' Did she — suffer much ?" he asked, in 
a harsh, low whisper. 

" No ; I do not think she was conscious 
for more than a few minutes. She was 
taken from us soon — very soon after the 
doctor came." 

** But at the last — you say she spoke. 
What did she say?" 

Zora hesitated a moment ; then she an- 
swered him, softly and solemnly, 

"We knew it was the end, and I was 
holding her in my arms, and bent close to 
hear what she said, as her lips moved. She 
looked away beyond us all with a sort 
of light on her face, and said, ' So this 
was why you gave me no sign, my love !* 



Then slie tried to stretch her arms out as 
if she saw — him — there, and whispered his 
name. And that — is all." 

Zora's voice had trembled at the allusion 
to Duke, and now she broke down into 
sobs, and the tears brimmed over and 
streamed down her cheeks. But he still 
listened immovable as stone. He only 
asked one more question, " Where is she ?" 
And when Zora had answered, " In her 
own room," he turned and left her. 

He went up straight to Lull's room, and 
they who watched and listened, heard the 
door close softly behind him. Then there 
was a long, long silence. No human pity, 
no human reproach, no love nor hate, dared 
penetrate the solitude where Glencairn 
watched by the fair cold marble that was 
his loving, living daughter once — how long 


ago ? No voice nor footfall dared disturb 
the silence that reigned there. 

At last he came out from the room of 
death, and asked for Zora. She was down- 
stairs, they told him. 

Zora was sitting with her face buried in 
her hands, her heart aching alike with the 
horror of this new tragedy and the re- 
awakened agony of the old wound, when 
Glencairn entered. 

*' You are here ? It is you I want," he 

Zora looked up, and not only the old 
grief, but the old terror, clutched her heart 
again. She had always feared Glencairn, 
even during the life of the one creature 
who exercised over him a softening and 
humanising influence. Now that that one 
frail link between him and human love was 



gone, what miglit she not have to fear? 
what wrath might he not wreak on her in 
his despair? The stain of one murder 
was already on his soul ; what security had 
she now that the bitterness of his suffer- 
ing might not turn in fury upon her ? 

As he came to her side, and looked down 
upon her with his dark deep-set eyes — eyes 
which burned with a sombre fire, and 
which no natural tears seemed to have 
softened — her terror of him was strong 
upon her ; but stronger still her pity and 
her sorrow, her conviction that in the pre- 
sence of this terrible tragedy, cowardice 
should be ashamed to enter. For once in 
her life Z era's shame of her fear was 
greater than her fear ; her spirit, uplifted 
above her fanciful terrors, in the face of an 
anguish deeper than her own, rose strong 
to dare and to endure. 


A nobler resignation and pleading than 
he had ever seen in her look before filled 
her large dark sad eyes now, as she gazed 
at him, unshrinking, too deeply moved for 
tremblings or tears. 

But she had no reason to fear. His 
voice had never been more quiet — his man- 
ner never so gentle — to her. 

"It is not much I have to say," he began. 
" Only that from the oath I exacted from 
you once, I absolve you now. Tell the 
true story to whom you will. Some day 
some one may have a claim to hear it from 
you. I set you free to speak." 

He was silent a few moments, and then 
added with a sort of abstracted thoughtful- 
ness, '^ You have kept my secret well." 

" God forgive me ! I have," she an- 


" The ways of Destiny are wonderful," 
he said in the same abstracted way, as if 
only half his consciousness were there with 
her, and the depths of his soul were un- 
knowing of her presence and of his own 
words. *^I dreaded lest vou in dreams or 
fevers might betray me. And it was he — - 
whom I had hoped — Well ! we know not 
from what quarter the thunderbolt will fall." 

He sat there lost in thought, with his 
head on his hand ; and for a long while 
neither broke the silence. Zora looked at 
him, and as the moments went by, still 
more and more her fear and recoiling from 
him yielded to her compassion. She could 
not hate him now in his mute, unuttered, 
dogged despair, which found relief in no 
tear nor sigh, which no mortal could have 
dared essay to soothe or stir, 


" The Fates have played their game 
with me," he said at last. ^' They let me 
hope — as the cat lets the mouse run. They 
showed me a glimpse of what her life 
might have been, if she had never 
known " 

" If she had never known !" mused Zora, 
with her deep eyes still dwelling on his 
face. " Could the truth be always hidden ? 
Yet sometimes — when I have seen you — 
seen you with her — I, even I, have won- 
dered — Is it possible ? Was it all a horrid 
dream ?" 

She had never spoken so to Glencairn 
before, and so speaking, she marvelled at 
herself. He seemed to be recalled to a 
clearer consciousness of her presence by 
her words. 

*' It was no dream," he said quietly, " It 
was 1 who shot him.'' 


Zora's eyes, dilated with horror and 
shrinking, were yet fixed with a kind of 
dreadful fascination upon his. She could 
scarcely breathe, and cold thrills ran like 
ice through her veins ; but a fearful, an 
irresistible curiosifcy impelled her reluctant 
lips to feebly frame the words — 

'*Was it — a duel — in fair fight?" 

^*In fair fight? — no," he said, his face 
unclouded by any shame. It seemed, in- 
deed, as if his set, stern features would 
nevermore be shadowed or changed by any 
fresh emotion. " From the bushes, as they 
said. How they all wondered ! My aim 
was always a sure one. When he had 
fallen, I went to his side to see if the work 
was done. And at the last breath he 
drew, he looked up and knew me." 

Zora started with a sob of horror and 
anguish and yearning. 


''All — all!" she cried, shuddering, her 
whole frame seeraing to collapse in one 
great tremor, as she buried her face deep 
down in her hands. ''Oh, my darling ! 
my darling ! — murdered !" she moaned ; 
and the hands that covered her face shivered 
like aspen leaves. 

Glencairn took no notice of her agitation. 
He was past all agitation himself. Only 
his brows contracted in a deeper line above 
the stern dark eyes, as he said, more to 
himself than her — 

"I wish that he had not looked up and 
known me before he died. That last look 
of his has come back to me — sometimes. 
It is the nearest approach to what you call 
remorse that I have ever had." 

*' Remorse ?" she repeated, looking up at 
him wildly. " Have you known no re- 
morse ? Oh, how could you live with that 


upon your soul?" Sbe was far too des- 
perate to fear him ; lier terror of him, lost 
in deeper passion, had fled at once and for 
ever now. 

And as she broke recklessly down all 
barriers, and spoke her true heart's wonder 
fearlessly to him, so, for the first and last 
time, he spoke from the very depths of his 
soul to her ; and a far-off reverberation of 
the tempest in which that lost and ship- 
wrecked soul was tossing blindly in the 
dark betrayed itself in his tone as he said, 
after drawing one deep, long breath — 

^' I only loved Luli — I only cared for 
Luli. There was only one soft spot in my 
nature, and that was Luli. She never 
knew why I killed him. I wish she had 
known. I told her only now — but how 
can I know whether she heard me ? She 


has died as her mother died — and both their 
deaths are written to my charge ! Yet I 
tried to save her — only all went wrong. I 
reap the harvest I sowed. But if I were 
mad, that madness was foredoomed; the 
seed I sowed, and the fruit I gather to» 
day. Fate played its game — but the game's 
played out now." He looked away beyond 
Zora, as though he saw an enemy — heard 
an enemy's mirth mock his despair. " You 
cursed Fates — laugh on ! I defy you 
now ! There is no vulnerable spot left in 
me. Do your worst !" 

Zora was silent awhile, in a reluctant 
compassion, so deep and resistless that, 
when at last she spoke, her tone and words 
were full of involuntary sympathy. 

" Is there — no hope — no hope left in life 
for you ?" 


He did not answer impatiently nor 
scornfully, but sliook his head gently, and 

^'No, no. No new life. Too late." 
Presently he rose, and went again to the 
room where his dead darling lay, and 
looked once more on her cold, calm beauty. 
When he left her this time, he kissed the 
marble lips and said " Good-bye." As 
Martin Griffiths and Zora stood together 
speaking in hushed whispers, they heard — 
for everything sounded distinctly through 
the solemn silence of the house — Glen- 
cairn's step come slowly downstairs, Glen- 
cairn's voice asking the servants for a 
railway guide. Then in a few minutes he 
entered the room where they were. The 
railway guide-book was open in his hand, 
and for a moment or two, as he ran his 


eye and his finger down one column, he 
did not notice them. He took out his 
watch and glanced from the book to it with 
knitted brow, and seemed to note the time 
with something approaching satisfaction. 
He looked at Martin Griffiths, and spoke 
to him, in the old, quiet, grave, self-pos- 
sessed tone, apparently regardless of the 
horror and recoiling striving with com- 
passion in Griffiths's honest eyes. For that 
there had been foul play in the matter of 
Duke Mayburne's death, Griffiths of course 
too plainly perceived. 

"Will you give all orders for the 
funeral ?" Glencairn said. " I am going on 
a short journey — only three hours' rail," he 
added, glancing down at the book in his 
hand. *' In the drawer of that writing- 
table you will find money enough for all 


present expenses, if I am not back soon. 
Here is tlie key. Consult together, you 
two ; and give all necessary orders." 

The clock was heard to strike. Glen- 
cairn turned at the sound with a slight 
start, and looked across the garden and the 
fields towards the railway-bridge. They 
noticed a sort of strange eagerness — the 
light of an excitement and suspense that 
had nothing to say to hope — in his eyes. 

'* My watch is slow," he said ; " the 
•express is nearly due. Good-bye. I don't 
offer my hand. You can take it when we 
meet again !" 



" Unarm, Eros ; the long day's task is done, 
And we must sleep. — So it must be, for now 
AU length is torture. Since the torch is out, 
Lie down, and stray no farther !" 

Antomj and Cleopatra. 

" From too much love of living, 
From hopes and fears set free. 
We thank with brief thanksgiving 

Whatever gods may be — 
That even the weariest river 
Winds somewhere safe to sea !" 


fTlHE guard of the express-train that 
whirled on its way to London that 
afternoon, knew Glencairn by sight, and 
not knowing of the domestic calamity that 
had befallen at the Chalet, smiled as he 


touclied his cap to the gentleman whom he 
had good reason for recognizing, albeit 
Glencairn was always more lavish of his 
silver than of his smiles. It happened 
that no one of the neighbourhood who was 
personally acquainted with him travelled in 
the same carriage by that express ; and the 
guard noticed nothing strange in his 
manner either as he entered or as he 
alighted from the train. 

N"ot long after the arrival of that train 
in London, another train started for a 
popular sea-side place within a convenient 
distance of the metropolis. A young 
married couple travelling by this latter 
train took especial notice of one of their 
fellow-passengers — a tall man, with dark 
hair heavily streaked with grey, with a 
grizzled beard, and eyes whose strangeness 

GLENCAIllN. 305 

puzzled them until tliey observed that one 
was of a different and darker hue than the 
other. This man looked often at the 
young couple, and although one or two 
casual stock travelling remarks were ex- 
changed, and he spoke to them very gently 
and courteously, they noted that he never 
smiled. The young wife was a pretty, 
rosy, dark-eyed girl, not in the least like 
Luli. It was not on account of any like- 
ness, real or imaginary, that he looked at 
her. But there before him were youth 
and love and happiness. And it seemed so 
strange and dream-like to him in that hour 
to look on love and joy and youth, and 
realise — as one looking across an impass- 
able sea— that those far-off things existed 
on the other horizon. 

That evening on the beach, some two or 



three miles from that popular watering- 
place, a boatman stood hitching up to a 
post a light, pretty cockle-shell of a boat, 
about which two little children were play- 

The Summer days closed late ; the Sum- 
mer night had only cast the first shadowy 
softness over sea and land. In the misty 
azure of the sky, across which white pen- 
nons of clouds streamed proudly, there 
still lingered one fair cloud banner faintly 
tinged with rose, the last ensign of the 
dying day, fading and sinking as the 
standards of night arose. The crescent 
moon was rising victorious over the fallen 
sun. But in the clear grey sea, whose 
waves now lipped the shore so softly, no 
star was mirrored as yet. 

The beach was solitary there ; the spot 


where beauty and wealth and fashion most 
did congregate, was miles away. The 
boatman looked up as another human 
figure came towards him along the lonely 

The gentleman who was drawing near, 
walked slowly, as if in deep abstraction. 
When he got close to the boat, as if about 
to pass it by, he paused suddenly, and 
turned, and looked from the boat to the 

''Want a row, sir?" said the man, see- 
ing an opportunity for a stroke of business. 

" Is this your boat ?" the gentleman 

'' Yes, sir. The Mary, No better little 
craft along the coast." 

" I will take a row by moonlight. The 



sea is calm ; I'll take tlie oars and row my- 
self. Push down the boat." 

"Shan't I accompany you, sir? It'll be 
getting dark soon." 

" Not with that moon rising. Besides, 
I can handle an oar with any man. I was 
a sailor once." 

"Was you, sir? Then I'll trust the 
Mary in your care. Here, young kids out o* 
the way!" and warning the two children 
aside, he prepared to push the boat down. 

" Are these children yours ?" asked the 

"No, sir, a mate o' mine's, they be. 
Polly and Dick. Here, come and speak to 
the gentleman." 

The little girl had golden hair, and all 
little girls with golden hair bear more or 
less resemblance to each other, especially 


when the twilight is closing in. The 
gentleman did not take much notice of the 
boy, but he spoke to the girl, and laid his 
hand upon her hair, and twisted one curl 
round his finger. Then he slipped two or 
three bright coins into her hand, and 
followed the boatman down to the lapping 
waves that were running up to kiss the 
keel of the boat. 

He stepped into the boat, and picked up 
the oars. As he stood poising the oars in 
his hand, he said half-carelessly to the 

" And have you any children, my man ?" 

" Yes, sir — one daughter. A fine lass 
she is, though I say it, and as good as she 
looks. The Mary here's named for her. 
Mary her name is.' ' 

The gentleman was silent for a mo- 


ment ; then a new thouglit seemed to strike 

" The Mary's named for her, is it ?" he 
said, and paused again, seeming lost in 
thought, as far as the boatman could judge 
his face in the fast-falling twilight. Pre- 
sently he threw down the oars, and drew 
out his watch and purse. 

"Look here," he said, *'you seem an 
honest fellow — and — I have an only daugh- 
ter too. I don't care for carrying my watch 
about me when I'm rowing alone. There's 
no knowing what craft one mayn't fall foul 
of. If you'll keep my watch safe for me, 
there's a sovereign for you when I come 
back, ril not be long. When I bring 
back your boat, give me my watch." 

He handed the watch, a handsome mass- 
ive hunting- watch with a heavy gold chain, 


to the man, who, somewhat surprised and 
thinking it "odd," but making no objec- 
tion, promised to guard it carefully. 

"And stay," the gentleman added, taking 
a piece of gold from his purse, as the boat 
slid off and rose upon the waves. " Give 
that to your Mary, and keep the watch safe 
till this Mary you trust in my care comes 
back to you." He tossed the piece of 
money to shore as he spoke. 

"God bless you, sir !" said the boatman 
and smiled as he saw the gold lying on his 
great rough palm gleam in the moon- 

It was so that Glencairn looked his last 
upon a human face ; and the last words 
that fell upon his ear were a blessing. 

The little boat was light and swift, and 
with Glencairn's strong arms pulling at the 
oars, it shot rapidly out to sea. , 


Furtlier, further out ! further still over 
the lowly heaving waves that bear it so 
lightly on their crests, and plash so softly 
against its sides as it dips down in their 
hollows. There are no white horses gal- 
loping along the sea this night ; no break- 
ers surge over sunken rocks. The moon 
is rising higher ; the boatman looking out 
sees his little vessel skim like a dark streak 
across the silver light. 

The rower has rested on his oars, and 
looks back to land. The lights are twink- 
ling now along the shore. Where the 
town lies, it is as if a topaz necklace had 
been flung along the curve of the coast, 
and every topaz ablaze with inner light. 
The stars are starting out from the shades 
of the darkening sky as the fiery writing 
glowed out upon the wall. But the mes- 


sage that night after night burns in the 
glory of the midnight heavens is one that 
though each mortal eye scans its fiery let- 
ters — in wonder, in adoration, in yearning 
or in prayer — no mortal heart has learned. 

He bends to his oars again, and pushes 
further out. Out to the sea where all that 
he knows of his life began — the sea where 
now it shall end. 

Those who knew him wondered after- 
wards whether in that supreme hour when 
he was alone between sea and sky, with 
the lights of land fading for ever, and all 
earth left behind — any visions of the past 
were with him in the solitude and the 
silence ? and were they visions of peace or 
pain ? How full of story the waves that 
splashed against the boat's side must have 
seemed ! From waters calmer, stiller than 


tliese he had once saved the life his mad- 
ness had destroyed. Waves sunnier than 
these, breaking on a fair far-off shore of 
Normandj, had sung the opening anthem 
of the love whose brief day had set in one 
red-stained midnight. Long ere that, — 
far, far back in the past that yet now must 
have seemed so near, — on the deck of a 
solitary ship tossing upon the South At- 
lantic Ocean, homeward bound, an earlier 
love had dawned. It was a wind like this, 
but stronger far, as they bent that day 

" In the teeth of the hard glad weather, 
In the blown wet face of the sea," 

that tossed and tangled her hair and rudely 
flushed her cheek when he first saw her 
whose life and death were thenceforth 
linked with his, — the pearl he won and 
wore, and then in his recklessness threw 


away. And yet long, long before that, 
before his earliest recollections began, from 
a stormy southern ocean shaken by the 
wildest of its tempests, a childish body 
had been caught up drenched and dripping, 
with the life still in it. It could not have 
seemed so strange now to think that he was 
that child, now that he had lived through 
all, and the circle had run its round and 
the beginning and the end appeared sa 

How strangely things come round in 
circles! Now when the wide sea and 
shoreless horizon lay before him and the- 
land behind, now when behind him with 
the paling lights there faded all of earth 
away — did he hear in the wash of the 
waves soft whispers of old memories that 
lulled the storm ? or did their hollow mur- 


mur sound of retribution and of despair? 

Did tlie last look of the man lie had 
murdered reproach him again, and those 
eyes which had met his for one dread un- 
forgotten moment in the parting of soul 
and body, grow out of the darkness to 
haunt him now ? Did the daughter whose 
life he had blasted gaze reproach on him 
with sad spiritual eyes ? or the wife who had 
pardoned him all smile pardon still ? If as 
he held departed spirits could return, sure- 
ly at that last hour the soul of Laura Glen- 
€airn, forgiving her own wrongs and her 
daughter's, would have fled down from 
heaven to his side, that he should not be 
alone when the darkness closed upon him. 

The lights are far off now ; there is no 
«ign of human life near him save the fleck 
of a white sail in the distance. A little wind 


is rising, moaning across tlie waves; the 
pulse of the sea is throbbing. A few clouds 
have floated up from the horizon, and like 
dusky sea-birds are winging their way across 
the clear sky. One dark cloud drifts across 
the moon. 

He is alone in the silence and the 
shadows, alone on the bosom of the sea 
that rocked him as a child, that was all of 
father or mother he ever knew. 

" Qui s'endort dans le sein d'un p5re 
n'est pas en souci du re veil." 

That midnight the owner of the Mary 
watched and waited for his boat. The moon 
was low upon the horizon, flooding the sea 
from sky to shore with a last glory of light. 
Presently across the broad bright golden 
path of moonlight that seemed to lead 


away to the Happy Isles no mariner has 
touched, there drifted a little boat. With 
a telescope at his accustomed eye, the 
watcher saw that it was empty and oar- 
less, and even before it had floated near 
enough for him to decipher the letters on 
the stern, he knew it was the Mary. 

No more than this was ever known of 
Glencairn. No body that could be identi- 
fied as his was ever found. His few friends, 
Martin Griffiths at their head, traced him 
afterwards as far as the last voice that had 
spoken to him, the last eye that had rested 
on his face. 

But the life that began in mystery 
closed in mystery. The sea held its secrets ; 
and in the depths where lies the secret of 
his birth, there lies the mystery of his 
death. No marble tomb is consecrated to 


his memory ; no churchyard cross bears his 
name. In his '' vast and wandering grave " 
his body Hes at peace. And from his deep- 
dyed soul perhaps a mercy more fathomless 
and infinite than the sea, has washed the 
stains away. 

In a world where the secrets of all souls 
are known, there may be pardon and peace 
for even him. 

In this world nothing is known of him 
now save that he lived and died. His 
name is not linked with his crime ; the 
double brand of murderer and suicide rests 
not upon his unknown grave ; for the only 
two who know or suspect the true story of 
his sin and his death, keep their secret, and 
let his memory rest. It is too late to save or 
to atone, though there is still and ever time 
enough to brand his memory and blast his 
name — the name that Luli bore. 


But the J who loved her keep silence, in 
part for her sake, in part because in this 
case they hold the warning of the old stanza 

" Deal not vengeance for the deed, 
And deal not for the crime. 
The body to its place, and the soul to heaven's grace 
And the rest in God's own time !" 

Even Zora forgave him, and murmured 
*'6od rest his soul!" when that reckless 
soul had rushed " with all its imperfections 
on its head" into the face of the Eternal. 

For her, the sole survivor of the tragic 
story that ended deep down under the 
ocean waves, for Zora, the shadow of her 
rash and fatal love may never be wholly 
lightened off her life. But Time has laid 
his healing hand upon her heart ; and each 
succeeding year as it flowed and ebbed, has 


helped to wasli the bitterness of the mem- 
ory away. 

And she was too young to suffer for 
ever — too fair for all Hope to forsake her 
with the tragic awakening from one dream. 
Though one star fell, in due time another 

The hour came when into that heart 
which had suffered and bled for Love, Love 
entered again. From the ashes of the once 
consuming fire, a new love arose like a 
phoenix, rose stronger, nobler, greater, 
than before. 

Now round a heart of oak her vine-like 
nature twines ; and she, who swayed weak 
with the bending sapling, stands strong 
with the standing oak. Now she is brave 
through his strength who was feeble alone ; 
she is true through his truth who was false 



tlirougli her feebleness. The new love is 
as bright with hope as the old love is 
shadowed with despair ; and while the Past 
still means remorse and sorrow, the future 
to her now means Love and Faith. 



13, Great ^Iarlborough Street. 


HISTORIC CHATEAUX. By Alexander Baillie 

CocHRANTE, M.P. 1 vol. demy 8vo. 15s. 

COACHING ; With Anecdotes of the Eoad. By 

Lord Willi.V3I Pitt Lenxox, Author of " Celebrities I have 
Known," &c. Dedicated to His Grace the Duke of Beau- 
fort, K.G., President, and the Members of the Coaching 
Club. 1 vol. demy 8vo. los. 

" Lord William's book is genial, discursive, and gossipy. "We are indebted to the 
author's personal recollections for some lively stories, and pleasant sketches of 
some of the more famous dragsmen. Nor does Lord William by any means limit 
himself to the English roads, and English coaches. Bianconis Irish cars, the con- 
tinental diligences, with anecdotes of His Grace of Wellington, when Lord William 
was acting as his aide-de-camp during the occupation of Paris, with many other 
matters more or less germane to his subject, are all brought in more or less 
naturally. Altogether his volume, with the variety of its contents, will be found 
pleasant reading." — Pall Mall Gazette. 

" Lord William Lennox is favourably known as the author of a charming book 
full of most interesting personal recollections about the great and celebrated men 
he has known in his time. We have now from his f acUe and graceful pen another 
clever and amusing book, entitled 'Coaching; with Anecdotes of the Road,' which 
is pubUshed at a most seasonable time. It would be very diflBcult to give any 
adequate idea of the fascinating contents of Lord William Lennox's work in a. 
brief space — sufBce it to say that in the historical and antiquarian section the 
noble authors pleasant anecdotical humour imparts to what would otherwise be 
a dry performance all the charming gaiety of the sprightliest gossip. A very 
excellent account is given of coaching in Ireland. A quaint account, too, is givea 
of some of the most ' moving accidents ' incident to coaching, and Lord Wilham 
tells some capital stories about crack drivers, both professional and amateur, who 
were once famous. Altogether, we may say his lordship has been successful iu 
producing a fresh and lively book, which contains, in the pleasant guise of anec- 
dote and gossip, much information, both valuable and curious, on what may be 
called an out-of-the-way subject" — Daily Telegraph. 

"An extremely interesting and amusing work; chatty, anecdotical, and humor- 
ous. By far the best coaching book that has seen the light" — Globe. 


By W. J. C. MOENS. R.V.Y.C., Author of " English TraveUers and 
Itahan Brigands." 1 vol. demy 8vo, with Illustrations. 15s. 

" There is much in Mr. Moens's book that is decidedly fresh and original, while 
the novel routes that he followed introduced him to many interesting places which 
are too much neglected by ordinary tourists." — Saturday Review. 

" An agreeably written story of a pleasant tour." — Pall Mall Gazette. 

"This book is pleasantly written, the descriptions of the scenery and objects of 
interest are fresh and lively, and are interspersed with entertaining anecdote. Mr. 
Moens gives full and very valuable information to his yachting readers." — Sporting 

" Mr. Moens's interesting book is full of the very information which is likely to 
be of service to any one who wishes to make a similar trip." — Field 

"A brightly- written, genial, and lively narrative. A pleasanter tour of an 
Autumn hohday we have not met with." — Graphic. 

" This is a model of what such a book should be. The author has given almost 
every atom of information the most exacting inquirer could demand, such as the 
particulars concerning his yacht, its crew, its passengers, and its management ; 
concerning pilots and their charges, coal and its cost, locks, distances, canal 
dues, and other expenses, &c.'' — Illustrated News. 

"For those who may Uke to undertake a similiar expedition the volume will be 
full of interest and of the greatest service."— .Be^r^ Life. 

13, Great Marlborough Street. 

NEW WOUKS— Continued. 


Edward Walford, M.A., Author of "The County Families." 
2 vols, crown 8vo. 21s. (Just Ready. J 


Guthrie, Author of " Through Russia." 2 vols, crown 8vo. 21s. 
(Just Ready J 


Arnold, B.A., late of Christ Church, Oxford. 2 vols. 8vo. 30s. 

" This work is good in conception and cleverly executed, and as thoroughly 
honest and earnest as it is interesting and able. The style is original, the thought 
vigorous, the information wide and thorough, the portrait-painting artistic, and 
the comments keen enough to gratify and impress any student or thinker, whether 
or no he be inclined to endorse all the opinions of the author. There is not a 
chapter that any intelligent reader is likely to leave unfinished or to find uninter- 
esting. Moreover, there is with the scholarly ability so sincere an earnestness, 
and so much devotional feeling of a refined and simple sort, tender and true, that 
we believe no one will be able to go through the volumes without being conscious 
of having received a new impression of good, and without having learned a regard 
for the writer."— /oAn Bull. 

" We think it will be admitted that Mr. Arnold has achieved his task with a 
large amount of success. He presents a general view of what the Church has been 
doing during the last forty years ; but the bulk of the work is taken up with 
sketches of the leaders with whose names contemporary Church history is asso- 
ciated. Mr. Arnold is thus able to give a personal interest to his narrative, and to 
cast many side lights on the influences which have determined the direction of 
events. He displays considerable power of seizing the salient points of a striking 
character, and presenting them in a clear and forcible style." — Globe. 


VILLE. Edited from the French by Charlotte M. Yonge, 
Author of the " Heir of RedclyfFe," &c. 2 vols, crown Bvo. 21s. 

•' The author of this very interesting memoir was a French gentleman of ancient 
lineage, who left his home in Normandy to enter the service of Napoleon I. in 
1804, and, having distinguished himself in the Grand Army, retired from military 
life in 1833, and survived to witness the war of 1870, and the outbreak of the Com- 
mune of 1871. The personal career of M. de GonnevUle, as we see it in his modest 
account of himself, presents a number of points of interest — for he was an officer 
of no ordinary merit — intelligent, vigilant, and with great presence of mind. The 
most valuable part of these memoirs consists in the light they throw on the great 
age of military wonders and revolution which passed before M. de Gonneville's 
eyes. The work contains some interesting details on more than one campaign of 
the Grand Army which have not, we believe, been disclosed before ; and it adds to 
our knowledge respecting the struggle in Poland and Prussia in 1807, and several 
passages of the Peninsular War. It brings us, also, within the presence of Na- 
poleon I., and some of the chiefs who upheld the fortunes of the First Empire ; and 
its anecdotes about that extraordinary man are evidently genuine and very charac- 
teristic. It introduces us to the inner life and real state of the Grand Army, and 
lays bare the causes of its strength and weakness. The work discloses a variety 
of details of interest connected with Napoleon's escape from Elba, the Hundred 
Days, the Bourbon Eestoration, and the Eevolution of July, 1830. On the whole, 
readers who care to know what an honourable soldier heard and said of the most 
wonderful time in modern history will find in these pages much to delight them. 
We have dwelt at length on this instructive record of the experiences of a mem- 
orable age, and can commend it cordially to our readers."— 2%e Times. 


13, Great Marlborough Street. 


NEW WORKS— Co7itmued. 


France. By Charles Duke Yonge, Regius Professor of Modern 
Histoiy and English Literature in Queen's College Belfast. New 
AND Cheaper Edition. 1 vol. large post 8vo, with Portrait. 9s. 

" Professor Yonge's 'Life of Marie Antoinette' supplies, in a most attractive and 
readable shape, all the latest information respecting this unfortunate Queen." — 
Church Quarterly Revieio. 

" A work of remarkable merit and interest, which will, we doubt not, become 
the most popular English history of Marie Antoinette." — Spectator. 

"A work of considerable value. It is a most interesting and carefully-considered 
Tiiography, as well as a valuable elucidation of a portion of the political history of 
the last century." — Morning Post. 

' ' This book is well written, and of thrilling interest." — Academy. 

" An invaluable biography ; one of the very best of modem times." — Messenger. 

" A narrative full of interest from first to last To tell it clearly and straight- 
forwardly is to arrest at once the attention of the reader, and in these qualities of 
a biographer Professor Yonge leaves little to be desired.""— Graphic. 

MY YOUTH, BY SEA AND LAND, from 1809 to 
1816. By Charles Loftus, formerly of the Royal Navy, 
late of the Coldstream Guards. 2 vols, crown 8vo. 21s. 

"It was a happy thought that impelled Major Loftus to give us these reminis- 
cences of ' the old war,' which still retains so strong a hold on our sympathies. 
Every word from an intelligent actor in these stirring scenes is now valuable. 
Major Loftus played the part allotted to him with honour and ability, and he 
relates the story of his sea life with spirit and vigour. Some of his sea stories are 
as laughable as anything in 'Peter Simple,' while many of his adventures on 
shore remind us of Charles Lever in his freshest days. During his sea life 
Major Loftus became acquainted with many distinguished persons. Besides the 
Duke of Wellington, the Prince Regent, and William IV., he was brought into 
personal relation with the allied Sovereigns, the Due D'Angouleme, Lord William 
Bentinck, and Sir Hudson Lowe. A more genial, pleasant, wholesome book we 
have not often read." — Standard. 

"Major Loftus's interesting reminiscences will prove generally attractive; not 
only as full of exciting adventures, but as recalling stirring scenes in which the 
honour and glory of England were concerned." — Post. 

" Major Loftus gives us a book as entertaining as ' Midshipman Easy,' and as 
instructive as a book of travels. It has not a dull page in it ; and, whether by the 
camp-fire, in the barrack-library, or on shipboard, we are confident it will receive 
a warm welcome, whilst its literary merit will commend it to those uncoimected 
with the services." — United Service Magazine. 


WHETHA3I. 1 vol. Demy 8vo, with 8 lUustrations. 15s. 

" The literary merits of Mr. Whetham's work are of a very high order. His 
descriptions are vivid, the comments upon what he saw judicious, and there is an 
occasional dash of humour and of pathos which stirs our sympathies." — Athenaeum, 

" Mr. Whetham is evidently an intelligent and well-informed man ; he writes 
pleasantly, and it should be strange if every one in a volume of this size does not 
find much that is fresh and novel" — Pall Mall Gazette. 

" Mr. Whetham is scarcely behind Hermann Melville in powers of vivid descrip- 
tion. There is much of the strange and beautiful in his graphic and adventurous 
narrative." — Telegraph. 

" Mr. Whetham's descriptions of scenery are picturesque, and his accomits of 
native manners and customs humorous and entert&iaias."— Standard 


13, Great Marlborough Street. 

NEW WORKS— Continued. 


OF ARAGON and ANNE BOLEYN. By W. Hepworth Dixon. 
Second Edition. Vols. 1 & 2. Demy 8vo. 30s. 

"In two handsome volumes Mr. Dixon liere gives us the first instalment of a 
new historical work on a most attractive subject. The book is in many respects a 
favourable specimen of Mr. Dixon's powers. It is the most painstaking and 

elaborate that he has yet written On the whole, we may say that the book 

is one which will sustain the reputation of its author as a writer of great power 
and versatility, that it gives a new aspect to many an old subject, and presents in 
a very striking light some of the most recent discoveries in English history."— 

"In these volumes the author exhibits in a signal manner his special powers 
and finest endowments. It is obvious that the historian has been at especial paina 
to justify his reputation, to strengthen his hold upon the learned, and also to 
extend his sway over the many who prize an attractive style and interesting narra- 
tive more highly than laborious research and philosophic insight." — Morning Post. 

" The thanks of all students of English history are due to Mr. Hepworth Dixon 
for his clever and original work, 'History of two Queens.' The book is a valuable 
contribution to English history. The author has consulted a number of original 
sources of information — in particular the archives at Simancas, Alcala, and Venice. 
Mr. Dixon is a skilful writer. His style, singularly vivid, graphic, and dramatic— 
is alive with human and artistic interest. Some of the incidental descriptions 
\each a very high level of picturesque power." — Daily News. 

" Mr. Hepworth Dixon, in his new work, has chosen a theme at once intrinsi- 
cally interesting and admirably fit for illustration by his practised and brilliant 
pen. The lives of Catharine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn give ample scope to a 
writer so clear and vivid in his descriptions, so lifelike in his portraiture, so de- 
cided in his judgment, and whose sparkling vivacity of style can be shaded off, 
when necessary, by such delicate touches of tenderness and pathos. For pleasant 
reading and very effective writing we can warmly commend Mr. Dixon's volumes." 
Daily Telegrajah. 


By W. Hepworth DrxoN. Second Edition. Demy 8vo. Price 30s. 
Completing tlie Work. 

" These concluding volumes of Mr. Dixon's ' History of two Queens ' will be per- 
used with keen interest by thousands of readers. "Whilst no less valuable to the 
student, they will be far more enthralling to the general reader than the earlier 
half of the history. Every page of what may be termed Anne Boleyn's story afi^ords 
a happy illustration of the author's vivid and picturesque style. The work should 
be found in every library." — Post. 

" Mr. Dixon has pre-eminently the art of interesting his readers. He has pro- 
duced a narrative of considerable value, conceived in a spirit of fairness, and 
written with power and picturesque effect." — Daily News. 

" Mr. Dixon has completed in these volumes the two stories which he has narrat- 
ed with so much grace and vigour. Better still, he has cast the light of truth upon 
incidents that have not been seen imder that light before. Full of romantic and 
dramatic sentiment as the story of Catharine is, we think that the more absorbing 
interest is concentrated in the story of Anne Boleyn. Never has it been told so 
fully, so fairly, or so attractively." — Notes and Queries. 


Pennsylvania. By W. Hepworth Dixon. A New Library Edition. 
1 vol. demy 8vo, v^ith 'Portrait. 12s. 
" Mr. Dixon's ' William Penn ' is, perhaps, the best of his books. He has now re- 
vised and issued it with the addition of much fresh matter. It is now offered in a 
sumptuous volume, matching with Mr. Dixon's recent books, to a new generation of 
readers, who will thank Mr. Dixon for his interesting and instructive memoir of 
one of the worthies of England."— ^'xamiwer 


13, Great Maelborough Street. 

NEW WO^KS—Conti7iued. 


Including His Correspondence. By His Grandson, Spencer Wal- 
POLE. 2 vols. 8vo, with Portrait. 30s. 

" Mr. Walpole's work reflects credit not only on his industry in compiling an 
important biography from authentic material, but also on his eloquence, power of 
interpreting political change, and general literary address. The biography will take 
rank in our literature, both as a faithful reflection of the statesman and his period, 
as also for its philosophic, logical, and dramatic completeness." — Morning Post. 

" In Mr. Perceval's biography his grandson has undoubtedly made a valuable 
addition to our Parliamentary history. The book is full of interest" — Daily News. 

COSITAS ESPANOLAS ; or, Every-day Life in 

Spain. By Mrs. Harvey, of Ickwell-Bury, Author of ♦' Turkish 
HaremB and Circassian Homes." Second Edition. 1 vol. 8vo. 15s. 

" A charming book ; fresh, lively, and amusing. It may confldently be recom- 
mended to all readers who want to know something about the inner life of Spain. 
Mrs. Harvey describes Gibraltar, Madrid, the Escurial, the Alhambra, Seville, 
and many other places ; and there is a freshness and sincerity about the account 
•which causes it to seem as new as if the topic had never been treated before. The 
descriptive faculty is very largely developed in our author, and some of the pass- 
ages relating to scenery are extremely fine, and lay the view before the eyes to 
perfection. What makes the book still more attractive is the keen sense of 
humour manifested throughout." — Post. 

LIFE OF MOSCHELES ; with Selections from 

HIS diaries and correspondence. By His Wife. 
2 vols, large post 8vo, with Portrait. 243. 

•'This life of Moscheles will be a valuable book of reference for the musical his- 
torian, for the contents extend over a period of threescore years., commencing with 
1794, and ending at 1870. "We need scarcely state that all the portions of Mosche- 
les' diary which refer to his intercourse with Beethoven, Hummel, Weber, Czemy, 
Spontini, Eossini, Auber, HaMvy, Schumann, Cherubini, Spohr, Mendelssohn, F. 
David, Chopin, J B. Cramer. Clementi, John Field, Habeneck, Hauptmann, Kalk- 
brenner, Kiesewetter, C. Klingemann, Lablache, Dragonetti, Sontag, Persian!, 
Malibran, Paganini, Eachel, Ronzi de Begnis, De Beriot, Ernst, Donzelli, Cinti- 
Damoreau, Chelard, Bochsa, Laporte, Charles Kemble, Paton (llrs. Wood), 
Schroder-Devrient, Mrs. Siddons, Sir H. Bishop, Sir G. Smart, Staudigl, Thalberg, 
Berlioz, Velluti, C. Young, Balfe, Braham, and many other artists of note in their 
time, will recall a flood of recollections. It was a delicate task for Madame Mos- 
cheles to select from the diaries in reference to Uving persons, but her extracts have 
been judiciously made. Moscheles writes fairly of what is called the ' Music of the 
Future ' and its disciples, and his judgments on Herr Wagner, Dr. Liszt, Ruben- 
stein, Dr. von Biilow, Litolff, &c., whether as composers or executants, are in a 
liberal spirit He recognizes cheerfully the talents of our native artists. Sir Stem- 
dale Bennett, Mr. Macfarren, Madame Arabella Goddard, Mr. John Bamett, Mr. 
HuUah, Mrs. Shaw, Mr. A. Sullivan, &c. The celebrities with whom Moscheles 
came in contact, include Sir Walter Scott, Sir Robert Peel, the late Duke of Cam- 
bridge, the Bunsens, Louis Philippe, Napoleon the Third, Himiboldt, Henry Heine, 
Thomas More, Count Nesselrode, the Duchess of Orleans, Prof. Wolf, &c. In- 
deed, the two volumes are full of amusing anecdotes." — Athenoeum. 


AND ENGLAND. By Lady Clementina Davies. 2nd Edition. 2 v. 

" Two charming volumes, full of the most interesting and entertaining matter, 
and written in plain, elegant English. Lady Clementina Davies has seen much, 
heard much, and remembered well. Her unique and biilliant recollections have the 
interest of a romance, wherein no character is fictitious, no incident untrue." — Post. 

13, Great Marlborough Street. 

NEW WO'RKS— Continued. 


PERMISSION TO THE QUEEN. Sixth Edition. 8vo. SOs. 

From the Times:— "All the civilized world— English, Continental, and Ame- 
rican—takes an interest in the Tower of London, The Tower is the stage 
upon which has been enacted some of the grandest dramas and saddest tragedies 
in our national annals. If, in imagination, we take our stand on those time-worn 
walls, and let century after century flit past us, we shall see in duo succession the 
majority of the most famous men and lovely women of England in the olden time. 
We shall see them jesting, jousting, love-making, plotting, and then anon, per- 
haps, commending their souls to God in the presence of a hideous masked figure, 
bearing an axe in his hands. It is such pictures as these that Mr. Dixon, with 
considerable skill as an historical limner, has set before us in these volumes. Mr. 
Dixon dashes off the scenes of Tower history with great spirit His descriptions 
are given with such terseness and vigour that we should spoil them by any attempt 
at condensation. As favourable examples of his narrative powers we may call at- 
tention to the story of the beautiful but unpopular Elinor, Queen of Henry III., and 
the description of Anne Bolesna's first and second arrivals at the Tower. Then wa 
have the story of the bold Bishop of Durham, who escapes by the aid of a cord 
hidden in a wine- jar; and the tale of Maud Fitzwalter, imprisoned and murdered 
by the caitiff John. Passing onwards, we meet Charles of Orleans, the poetic 
French Prince, captured at Agincourt, and detained for flve-and-twenty years a 
prisoner in the Tower. Next we encounter the baleful form of Eichard of Gloucester, 
and are filled with indignation at the blackest of the black Tower deeds. As we 
draw nearer to modem times, we have the sorrowful story of the Nine Days' 
Queen, poor little Lady Jane Grey. The chapter entitled "No Cross, no Crown " 
is one of the most affecting in the book. A mature man can scarcely read it with- 
out feeling the tears ready to trickle from his eyes. No part of the first volume 
yields in interest to the chapters which are devoted to the story of Sir Walter 
Ealeigh. The greater part of the second volume is occupied with the story of the 
Gunpowder Plot. The narrative is extremely interesting, and will repay perusal. 
Another catise celibre possessed of a perennial interest, is the murder of Sir Thomas 
Overbury by Lord and Lady Somerset. Mr. Dixon tells the tale skilfully. In con- 
clusion, we may congratulate the author on this work. Both volumes are decided- 
ly attractive, and throw much light on our national history." 


PERMISSION TO THE QUEEN. Completing the Work. Third 
Edition. Demy 8vo. 30s. 
"These volumes are two galleries of richly painted portraits of the noblest 
men and most brilliant women, besides others, commemorated by English 
history. The grand old Eoyal Keep, palace and prison by turns, is revivified in 
these volumes, which close the narrative, extending from the era of Sir John Eliot, 
who saw Ealeigh die in Palace Yard, to that of Thistlewood, the last prisoner im- 
mured in the Tower. Few works are given to us, in these days, so abundant in 
originality and research as Mr. Dixon's." — Standard. 

FREE RUSSIA. By W. Hepworth Dixon. Third 

Edition. 2 vols. 8vo, -with Coloured Illustrations. 30s. 
"Mr. Dixon's book will be certain not only to interest but to please its readers 
and it deserves to do so. It contains a great deal that is worthy of attention, and 
is likely to produce a very useful effect" — Saturday Review. 

THE SWITZERS. By W. Hepworth Dixon. 

Third Edition. 1 vol. demy 8vo. 15s. 
"A lively, interesting, and altogether novel book on Switzerland. It is full of 
valuable information on social, political, and ecclesiastical questions, and, like all 
ijix. Dixon's books, is eminently readable." — Daily News. 

13, Gheat Maelbobough Stkeet. 

NEW WOUKS— Continued. 


THOSE IN SORROW. Dedicated by Permission to The Queen. 
Third Edition, 1 vol. small 4to, os. bound. 

"These letters, the work of a pure and devout spirit, deserve to find many 
readers. They are greatly .superior to the average of what is called religious 
literature. ' ' — A thenxum, 

"The writer of the tenderly-conceived letters in this volume was Mrs. Julius 
Hare, a sister of Mr. Maurice. They are instinct with the devout submissivenesa 
and fine sympathy which we associate with the name of Maurice ; but in her there 
is added a winningness of tact, and sometimes, too, a directness of language, which 
we hardly find even in the brother. The letters were privately printed and circu- 
lated, and were found to be the source of much comfort, which they cannot fail 
to afford now to a wde circle. A sweetly-conceived memorial poem, bearing 
the well-known initials, 'K H. P.', gives a very faithful outline of the life." — British 
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TENEGRO. By R. H. R. 1 vol. 8vo. 14s. 

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Jeatfreson. 2 vols. 8vo. SOs. 

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13, Great Mablborough Street. 

TUBLlCATIOm— Continued. 


By C. J. Andersson, Author of " Lake Ngami," &c. Edited by 

L. Lloyd, Author of "Field Sports of the North." 1 volume 

demy 8vo. With Portrait of the Author. 15s. hound. 

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WILD LIFE IN FLORIDA ; With a Visit to Cuba. 

By Captain F. T. Townshend, F.R.G.S., 2nd Life Guards. 1 vol. 
8vo, with Map and Illustrations. 15s. 
" A volume decidedly above the average of books of mingled travel and sport. 
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Batuk. 2 vols, crown 8vo. 21s. 
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ON THE WING ; A Southern Flight. By the 

Hon. Mrs. Alfred Montgomery. 1 vol. Svo. 14s. 
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It contains the following chapters : — La Belle Provence, Monaco, Bologna, Florence, 
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THROUGH RUSSIA: From St. Petersburg to 

ASTRAKHAN AND THE CRIMEA. By Mrs. Guthrie. 2 vols, 
crown Svo, with Illustrations. 21s. 
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By Mrs. Harvey, of Ickwell Bury. Svo. Second Edition. 15s. 
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OF NAPOLEON III. Cheaper Edition, in 1 vol. 6s. 
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Author of " The Ladye Shakerley." 1 vol. 7s. 6d. bound. 
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13, Great SIarlborough Street. 



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A woman's thoughts 










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Mac Donald, LL.D., Author of "Alec Forbes," " Robert Falconer," 
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ANNE WAEWICK. By Georgiana M. Craik. 

2 vols. 21s. 


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GLENCAIRN. By Iza Duffus Hardy, Author of 

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POWER'S PARTNER. By May Byrne, Author 

of " Ingram Place," &c. 3 vols. 

" A powerfully written story. It never for an instant flags, either in incident or 
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Author of " Old Myddelton's Money," &c. Second Edition. 3 vols. 

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PHGEBE, JUNIOR ; A Last Chronicle of Car- 

LiKGFORD. By 'Mrs. Oliphan't, Second Edition. 3 vols. 

" This novel shows great knowledge of human nature. The interest goes on 
growing to the end. Phoebe is excellently drawn." — Times. 

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Author of " A Golden Sorrovr," &c. 3 vols. 

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" The readers will be few and hard to please who fail to find amusement in 
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" ' Azalea ' is a story pleasant to read, in consequence of its thoroughly cultured 
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THE PENNANT FAiyHLY. By Anne Beale, 

Author of " Fay Arlington," &c. 3 vols. 

"A good and entertaining novel, dramatic and stirring." — Sunday Times. 

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nating, — and is of so high a character, and so pure in tone, that we can cordially 
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ERSILIA. By the Author of "My Little Lady." 

Second Edition. 3 yoIs. 

" A novel of more than common merit Ersilia is a character of much beauty, 
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Ersilia is a charming heroina"— Posf. 

"The tone of this book is very pure and high. Fathers and mothers owe a debt 
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they can put into their daughters' hands without misgiving." — Standard. 

AS LONG AS SHE LIVED. By F. W. Robinson, 

Author of " Grandmother's Money," " No Church," &c. 3 vols. 

" The characters of ' As Long as She Lived ' are vigorously given, and there is a 
new development of humour in the book which we should scarcely have expected, 
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" A capital story, of very amusing and often highly humorous reading. Mabel 
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LINKED LIVES. By Lady Gertrude Douglas. 

3 vols. 

" This story is full of interest from beginning to end. Its sketches in Glasgow 
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" This story is written with brightness and humour, as well as with tender 
pathos. It can scarcely fail of a favourable reception." — Post. 

" A deeply interesting, pure, and very able novel, true to human nature."— ZaS/e?. 


Published annually, in One Vol., royal 8uo, wi7A the Arms beautifully 
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Lodge's Peerage and Baronetage is acknowledged to be the most 
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occupies on the tables of Her Majesty and the Nobility. 


Historical View of the Peerage, 

Parliamentary Eoll of the House of Lords 

English, Scotch, and Irish Peers, in their 
orders of Precedence. 

Alphabetical List of Peers of Great Britain 
and the United Kingdom, holding supe- 
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Alphabetical list of Scotch and Irish Peers, 
holding superior titles in the Peerage of 
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A Collective list of Peers, in their order of 

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Table of Precedency among Women. 

The Queen and the Eoyal Family. 

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Families of such Extinct Peers as have left 
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Alphabetical List of the Surnames of all the 

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The Baronetage alphabetically arranged. 

Alphabetical List of Surnames assumed by 
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Alphabetical List of the Second Titles of 
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Alphabetical Index to the Daughters of 
Dukes, Marquises, and Earls, who, hav- 
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their Husband's Surnames. 

Alphabetical Index to the Daughters of 
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able Mrs. ; and, in case of the husband 
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Mottoes alphabetically arranged and trans- 

"A work which corrects all errors of formerworks. It is a most useful publication. 
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" The best existing, and, we believe, the best possible Peerage. It is the standard 
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Dixon's very interesting book." — Saturday Review. ' 


" ' Robert. Falconer ' is a work brimful of life and humour and of the deepest human 
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